Poetry
“The Problem with Language Today,” “The Last Altar Boy,” and “My Rolling Sea”
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The problem with language today
or
zombie apocalypse
or
mother of god
or
oompa-loompa wasteland
or
T.S., can you hear me?
Undone diction
etherized upon a table.
Is or isn’t. In or out. For or against.
Ones, zeroes, x’s, o’s.
Klaxoned opinions clamoring.
A crisis indeed.
No tolerance for gods
or freedom for doubt.
No image made holy
by poet or priest.
No fallen flare through
pinned-back ears.
No wings beating about the room.
How now, with language fixed
to the frame by words dead as door nails?
Who’ll pry loose more than meaning?
Hammer words back to life?
Make consonants click, syllables sing,
diphthong’s dance, angels alight?
For this zombie apocalypse
abuzz with inarticulate tongues?
This oompa-loompa wasteland
seething in hate?
I’d rather pierce my taint
and tattoo my twat,
if there’s still time.
No, that’s not it at all.
That’s not what I mean,
at all.
The Last Altar Boy
must have a soul
blueheads bobbing at early morning mass
tongues wetted and lurching
wet still for desire
bless them father
passes hard through a lie’s palsied way
more than a lapse of faith
smacking christ against unholy palates
denture-stuck and now repenting
gouging him, twisting him between slow to tithe fingers
salvation, forgiveness, faith, food
phlegm smeared to dry on the pew-backs before them
for the children of their children, for me to scrape clean
until and unless again he lolls out a tongue in expiation
no matter
no matter
i know well who rings the eucharistic bell
i god’s shifty little cherub
a levite, a wraith, a busboy of sorts
so tip well these venal, basket-shaking hands
quick to catch fallen ones
and dab dry the body of christ
atremble betwixt wine-dark lips
and father’s gold chalice
age-spotted hands
aquake in votive smoke
at the altar of sanctimony
must have a soul
no matter
no matter
spittle in the end
no more, no less
than the day before yesterday’s
day-old bread
My Rolling Sea
Alone I waited
for the sun to rise
over the Atlantic.
Aching feet numbed
by cold relief
plunged ankle deep
in a life-long friend.
My rolling sea of memory.
Alone I saw
glory and awe
line by line
shade by shade.
Thinking nothing yet
feeling I am touching
the face of peace
in the silence
between the waves.
Cold feet pain differently.
My Rolling Sea
Aged, alone
awaiting sunrise
over the Atlantic.
Aching feet numbed
by cold relief
plunged ankle deep
in a life-long friend.
My rolling sea of memory
pulled from clutched toes.
Alone I saw
glory withdraw
line by line
shade by shade.
Thinking nothing yet
feeling I am touching
a wave of silence
pass between us.
Feet have use beyond pain.