“Doing time–”
the unfitting way to say it.
“Listening” is better–
or sounds better.
“Sacrifice” nails it.
“Love” is at the heart of it.
Can you remember this when
you’re doing time?
I can still see his look–
his eyes, mostly–
you know,
a “you should know better” look,
fixed on me quite longer than it probably was,
to which I would say back,
with equal, knowing eyes,
“I know!!”–
just hoping to make him stop
looking.
But, my God,
when I stop and consider
how alone I am now!
I am alone, you know.
Not utterly,
but without his look, I
instead turn inward,
searching for what he left with me
by loving me,
what hasn’t been taken from me.
And all these years later, I realize
that the look he held in his eyes
was not really, “you should know better,”
but, “I love you.”
I know it
because I catch myself looking the same–
at moments– at my children,
and there is never a look– never a gesture–
that doesn’t distill, simply, to,
“I love you.”
For just a moment, I believed,
as in times past,
as dark retreated and light crept in,
that I heard your footfall,
and even pictured your figure in the hall,
and remembered your disdain for waking early,
and all the years at once came rushing back.
I was sure I’d blocked them out,
those ignorant, blissful years,
when He caused me to believe,
and even fooled,
and even lied to my heart,
that life and love would not be interrupted,
that His instruction to my heart
would not lead to parting.
O foolish man!
Who fooled you– told you–
that happiness would live forever?
Little people,
I say. Definitely
not bigger than the poor who
streak
and smudge my window,
as I fly
up Adams Street toward caffeination.
It’s eyes straight ahead
if I catch the light.
Latte– no diacritic.
The smudgers don’t argue.
Grande.
That’s ‘medium’ to the smudgers.
No foam.
Whole milk.
Decaf–
hmmm.
Well, only if Chris is judging me with her eyes.
I cannot–
will not–
release or part from you,
O man.
You ask
as dawn approaches fast
from night.
All through this night I’ve asked
a thousand times,
who am I,
and who are you?
I turn to ask
but you just smile, as if I know
or should.
How I am bruised and black
amidst this snow!
Did we not love,
first, I, on top
then you,
while angels faces turned blue
with fright?
Why couldn’t you have loved me
for who I was
where I was?
Who lied and said that I could love above–
with you below–
that the sun
could reflect the moon’s glow?
Prophet, no.
Teacher, no.
There is no food.
The members of my household
eat
each
other.
What is your name
O man–
you
who pulled me to the depths
of hell–
of love?
Bless me.
O come
shy muse from your depths.
Pity me
and tear back
from my dim eyes,
reality,
the ancient rite.
And tell me, muse,
of heaven’s bind,
valleys loosed,
and cows that seem
familiar–
if only in their names.
O lowly cows
that hop,
and skip,
and jump
the moon, as if their want
was heard–
though whispered only by the wind and bird.
As if the lowly–
the familiar–
cows
held sway,
their graves upturned
this winter day.
Dusty Pas’cal opened for Aztec Two-Step on Jan 8th at Auburn Public Theater. The song is “Lonesome.” Danny Welch is on harmonica. Learn more about Dusty Pas’cal here.
Restrained, you call me,
but not with words, just a look
through a well-worn door left half-ajar
by absent-minded children.
Despite your quiet
and restraints,
I can almost taste your wetness
even before I drink you in.
I look again.
Your five siblings, they,
still restrained in plastic,
still looking from behind the door,
betray their envy.
You take no note.
You caress
and you awaken my tongue
in ways that others have tried and failed–
lesser gods.
And when I’m finished with you,
I’ll toss you away.
What remains is only salvation
for seabirds
by marriage-bound decree.
Atheist says, “Bah!”
The program that programs itself
They say–
They scream–
Reverberating the programmatic dream;
And round and round we go–
In a circular row;
But perhaps
I have it!
Perhaps it’s turtles all the way down?
Or, perhaps, I’ll just repeat “natural selection,”
And “heritable traits;”
In an environment
The weaker dissipates–
In the program that programs itself;
How many lines of code
Written in languages unknown
Give science
A desperation for new ideas?
Or perhaps the turtles know who wrote the code?
It’s just a look
Or quick glance
That will cause a man to explain
What, but a moment ago
Seemed logical–
Practical;
Attempts to escape are futile–
Even deadly;
Behold
The judging eyes of a woman.
Believe or don’t believe
As you see fit
Beliefs or faiths; To wit,
Those that
Point your soul–
As if they could;
Stand at the pit
Arm in arm
With fellow goats
And pray for wool;
As fire leaps
And bounds so close
To touch your feet–
Spy the doubled-goats
Beneath.
I love you,
The simplest of lines;
Much like others that move me not;
It, I suspect
I will remember
More than others at my end;
Have I told you
Lately?
I love you.
Frayed band-aid
Thank you for being brand name;
It’s two showers later
And you’re still there;
Soaked with your telltale blood smear
You tell–
You betray to all passers by
Of my slip;
Better you’d lie.
“It’s all yours!”
She says as she passes
My office;
As I chip away
This big block of stone won’t go away;
Does she not realize
The mountains I face–
With nothing more than a keyboard
And mandate?
But the shower is dripping
Dripping away–
My shower
According to a more forceful mandate.
I used to scream
To my Mom;
Then she’d call home my Dad
From Crowleys,
When she couldn’t wake me
No matter how much she’d shake me;
Night terrors they’d call it;
A skinny demon
Who found me–
Rather abruptly–
In the phone book of hell
Under Briel,
Had no name of his own
Or none that he’d tell;
But he would describe me
As skinny
And lean
And liked;
Why these attributes appealed
To a demon with no name
Is beyond me.
My stomach is empty
And since I cannot
Create or write a lot
Lest I feel–
I present you with this unimportant fact;
If I could eat clicks and dedication–
Instead of eggs
And bacon–
Or if I could cook–
Oh, now the females look
Their former haunts forsaken;
O Tobey Maguire
Stand in fright!
We’re slipping back to black and white.
