My dead-yet-alive
are, you say, your
memory you’re keeping alive.
But no, without us they thrive.
This difference is more than semantics.
My dead-yet-alive
are, you say, your
memory you’re keeping alive.
But no, without us they thrive.
This difference is more than semantics.
Mercy was a schoolyard word,
the key unlocking the grip of the bully,
something I saw often enough
but normally (neatly, nimbly)
dodged myself. God did thus
himself a disservice, putting
his good word first in the
mouth of the enemy who demanded it –
of his victim no less.
And this was part of a larger pattern,
I saw, God betting on the wrong horse,
dumping his treasures in the mud,
thinking all-screwed-up might make
the good, the true and the beautiful
self-evident.
Oh I’ll admit:
I never see the truth better
than when I’m wrong
or love purity more
than when I’ve sinned.
So maybe this is just the way.
But why?
Why must dark
dress up our day?
You won’t be passing out stones
or scorpions or wasps on the other side
of apples. You won’t be not holding
the ladder when he climbs,
or not looking when she crosses.
You’ll not wonder when you should know,
for you’ll know, though you’d rather not.
You’ll know and do what you should do
because you are who you are,
the man, at last, you were meant to be.
Our hook is hidden in no dancing fly.
It hangs above the water with no enticement but
impalement. Our strength is in stillness
and waiting.

You’ll be delighted to know that you
register anywhere in anyone’s mind,
a flicker, the wavering line.
Hardly alive in yourself, there’s a
little of you there.
Life dishes out its unbelievable burdens
except it’s totally believable
because it happens every day
I dreamed I was dead
and woke and was not.
Whose time is this time?
How much have I got?
There are forgotten reasons why
you didn’t do what you didn’t do,
but now you’ve only what still
never existed – Technicolor scenes
and whiskey ads, gunboats in Esquire,
the Senator before his subcommittee,
the microphone, people clinging
to his every word.
From where you watch he’s far away,
mute lips on a screen as sunlight
climbs the outer wall. Soon there’ll be
nothing left to catch it. It will unravel
in cold dark corners of space.
We could throw away all the clocks
and move freely through time,
get ahead of our sufferings
and swerve round them,
circle back and laugh.
Impotent suffering.
Fool.
But wouldn’t we then, even then
carry inside what we’d lost
and know it
and die?