Evidence of Things Not Seen

He'll get his in due time
Who ascribed to time the power to heal.
Everything happens in due time.

Ticking clock, nurse, bandage,
judgment, karma, God, all at once.
These lies we tell, to what end?
Winter to winter, nothing changes.

Longing is as longing is, a restless arm
Reaching out in the lonely dark, only
A tender pillow stuffed full with memory
Where once before you were.

Summer to summer, everything changes
Do not look to time to heal.
Let be that whatever it is, will be
A thousand lights of what was before.

I’m Not Sorry I Lied

There is nothing here I wish to write about
Nothing of note happens, except we wake up
To struggle for everything,
Even air to breathe I tell you
The sun is too hot, oppressive even.
Words don’t flow so well
When your skull is aflame,
Your skin tingles
Without the possibility of orgasm at the end
And the sound in your head
Is the music of angry horns,
Angry men screaming obscenities
At other angry men.

Everybody needing a drink,
A shower with soap,
A good night's sleep,
Cheap dollar,
Sex that costs nothing
But time, the price of a rubber hat
To forestall the plague;
Unruly towhead children gallivanting,
Intoxicated by the possibility of adventure,
Destined for disappointment,
Perhaps a little conversation
To make like that was the point all along.

There’s quite a bit to be written
About Sunday mornings,
I will leave that to some other person.
I have enough to deal with already,
Why add to it blasphemy?
People lose heads over that around here
Twenty eight years I've kept this head,
I'd like to have it a while longer.
But for you who’s taken the time,
Don’t leave your windows open
On Sunday mornings,
You will pay for it with your sleep,
And be sorely tempted to launch missiles
At saints in worship.
That's worse than blasphemy.
I wonder what you’d lose for that.

If per chance you find out,
Leave me a note
Leave my name out of it.
Around these parts it pays not to be found
In the company of those who throw things.
Unless your target is one of those
Sinful homosexual people causing famine,
earthquakes, wars and things.
You can throw things at them all you want.
Or find yourself a Shiite,
They make for good piñatas
Best still, get yourself a woman.
But be sure to pay the dowry first.

You’re still here so now you know
That first line was a lie, second one too ,
There’s quite a bit I could write about.
These days I cannot care enough
And I’m not sorry I lied.
If you're offended
Find a hobby, or a piñata,
Or go to your nearest cathedral
You’ll find a gay man to throw things at.

You’ve Already Been Warned

Tomorrow the world will start all over again

There is no certainty here, only hoping and longing

And praying to unseen principalities, angels, immortals,

To God the father of Jesus Christ, same who walked,

And worked with sinners. Who died himself in thieves’ company.

Supplicating for understanding, for forgiveness, for tomorrow

That wipes yesterday’s sins away, and the hurting

And the hating that spews venomlike to kill all that is good,

Destroy all the loving and touching and longing that came before,

And was good and pleasurable and all that, even if only for a while.

But the deities are silent so far, and your entreaties are naught

‘cept the beating of wings in an empty room where no one hears,

Or cares, other than you alone who in addition to all else

Must now face the possibility that your mind is going,  

And you’re just that one step from the street corner,

From a dearly held bottle, cardboard mansions on doorsteps,

At the mercy of coppers, strangers, marauders, sex with strangers

For money, or booze or drugs to keep your mind, or what’s left of it

From remembering that time so far ago, across time and space

And reality of kingdoms promised, reaching for ends that exceeded

The present grasp but still possible for one who of whom it was said –

‘You are the boy king', image of Aten without the oedipal complex,

Edward VI, minus the tuberculosed lungs and cousin sex.

You see, this is how it all begins, first wanting to feel nothing,

Hoping to forget everything, thinking forgetting is how to stay alive

Till one day you’re overwhelmed by a Niagara of reminiscences

Barreling in, overwhelming intoxication and supplication

To a faraway God of doubtful provenance, in an empty room,

Then wondering if conversations with mirrors and walls is evidence

Sufficient of a pickled mind, needing a little deliverance before

The nightmare vision of street corners, cheap booze and buggery

By giant dicked strangers becomes a reality

With which you now must contend, in addition to all else.

If one then must flee this flight to psychosis, it follows thus

That every petition and entreaty to celestial beings for a tomorrow

Disconnected from history must be withdrawn and replaced

Because to run from the memories, you must run only to the abyss

That calls you with the voice of sirens, the promise of sweet relief,

Of catharsis through purgation of the mind. You’ve already been warned.

But how does one unpray a prayer without looking a fool?

You howl! That’s how. You fill yourself with righteous indignation,

Gather your anger to give your tired heart all the courage to stand steady

At the twelve gates of pearls and demand an audience of God himself

Against the certain protestations of Peter, holder of thy kingdom’s keys.

Whatever path you choose my friend the matter at hand remains

How do you get on with living when today’s as hard is this?

And hopes for tomorrow rest on nothing but quicksand and saw dust

And faith is lost to fire for nothing. Don’t look to me to tell you how,

Or elders to form your fate. None of us know how, this too is our first rodeo.

Even the stars will not guide your feet past the immense darkness

Of this unending night. So get on with it and know in your heart

That you are no longer obliged to certainty, or endless penance.

Today’s hard enough for you to grow, but not so hard to break your soul.

So get on with it. That’s all there is to be done.