Thought over it
as rain piled on…
the roof, the windows, everything…
considered pure refusal,
the remnants of my energy,
as rain reached out,
tormented my reverberating psyche…
there was repent the carnal alley ways
or bathe more often,
or stop lapping up snow-melt with my tongue,
or give the tanned young man in my head
the tattered family Bible,
that he might someday spray his altars
with fine jasmine or unadulterated piss –
but then I figured coldness
was my only mercy,
black clouds that swamp my head
bursting, going with the rain…
fact is, I cannot
though I have,
I must not,
though I should…
through mud, through scrubby hills,
through the door of friends
and out the door of strangers…
no more feeling that isn’t
fingers on my chin,
no looking further than the walls
of the room I’m in…
damn rain, I’m staring through the window pane,
it’s all reflection with runny eyes and nose,
surprised to meet a man of my shrunken dimension
I vow to never think of her,
to shoot first, speak less,
take money where I find it,
and soon enough the rain will stop,
sky clear, maybe even warm up a little just
enough so I need not vow again…
spend my last years
blistered on the beach
– John Grey… ...continue reading
The body cannot forget.
Shoulders slump to protect.
What’s left to regret?
Rolls of flesh beset
her bones. Armor to deflect.
The body cannot forget.
The toxins leach in sweat.
Pills leave lips spit-flecked.
What’s left to regret?
Each touch tallies against a debt.
Her skin numbs with neglect.
The body cannot forget.
Fingers stick to a cigarette,
yellow chemical and man intersect.
What’s left to regret?
To medicate hides the threat
of the memory a body can collect.
The body cannot forget
what’s left to regret
– Cara Schiff… ...continue reading
Our Father Who Art in Heaven,
stay there
with your retinue of
saccharine angels and saints,
orchestrating
the celestial fanfare,
while we remain below,
content to breathe
the pine-filled air,
to feel the wind caress
the napes of our necks,
to see the sun
illuminate the hills
as if every morning
were the first time,
to sense the ground
beneath our feet
and not above our heads,
sealing us off
in darkness and silence
from everything we love.
We tally up our losses
and our gains
to find that overall
it’s not half-bad
to be alive.
Amen
– Arthur Heifetz… ...continue reading
The minister was over for dinner
Our precocious five-year-old son
thin blonde hair flying off his head
leaned over the table with an intent expression
and asked the Reverend
Do you know that there are over a hundred-thousand Gods?
…and some of them have elephant heads?
I wondered:
How did he come up with this shit?
A powerful imagination he had
I couldn’t see it as a good thing
especially after what happened next
The Reverend
caught by surprise
inhaled a piece of brisket
He choked
choked to death actually
neither me nor my wife knowing
that maneuver when someone chokes
My wife ran out the front door
her grey and blue plaid dress flying behind her
but by the time someone got there
–the veterinarian
who’d been seeing to one of the neighbor’s calves–
it was too late
The Reverend lay on the floor
his face blue as an elephant-headed God’s
My son learned that there is information that should
not be shared
secrets that need keeping
My son learned that elephant-headed Gods don’t want
Baptist preachers to know about them
They wanted their elephant-headed secrets kept close
– Mitchell Grabois
… ...continue reading
Funny how vicious a cycle life is, isn’t it? It’s sadistic, almost. We spend most of it picking
up broken glass, trying to make sense of a deadly jigsaw puzzle that only leaves you
bleeding in the end. This is glass that, even when put back together, makes a window
that’s impossible to see out of.
When we finally slink away to lick the wounds, we return to broken sunshine glittering off
of the once again shattered window. Even though our old wounds are scabbing over, we
try to rebuild until there is nothing left but naked flesh, no protecting skin left, all blood
and exposed muscle…
But if we could only stop to see the way that the wicked sunlight shines off of our wrecked
windows or the way that the moon makes the pieces glow at night, then maybe we could
rest for one single moment.… ...continue reading
The same way that Winter
Wraps it’s cold fingers around my throat,
Is the same way it feels when you hold me.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t think.
I am frozen,
I am yours.
You are the Winter,
You blow right through me and chill my bones.
You raise goosebumps on my arms and legs, but most of all…
You are home.
You see, I was born in the arms of Winter.
I thrived inside a frozen womb,
I was raised inside of frozen igloos,
And learned to walk on ice.
I am home,
Even though the wind whips and burns my face.
I am home,
even though snow seeps into my socks and boots.
Even though I hurt,
Even though I freeze,
I am home.… ...continue reading
– From Rude Awakenings
The Lower East Side is a place of energetic life. It has none of the rigidity of a sterile rich
neighborhood, or the envy of the middle income areas. Poverty and want make all slum
dwellers kin, despite their outward unawareness; for since they are poor in possessions,
they must be rich in dreams. The slums of a great American city are the mixing pots of
humanity. The Lower East Side, Breugal like, is the great canvas of man, showing the
range of human types. There is no fusion here; the Negro, Puerto Rican, Italian, Jew,
Russian, Irishman and Pole are separate and distinct from each other, but alike in
undernourishment and deprivation.
A city is a hive of dreams and in the greatest city in the land, dreams are still being
struggled for.… ...continue reading