“Loose Parts,” “Quis Ut Deus,” and “Time and Fire”

Tweet, tweet, tweet,

tandaradei,

set the scene

back in the day;

inside and outside

the heat for master and slave

too hot to handle

even in the basement,

even in the shade

of the endless elms

the children complain,

banging around their toys,

the geese quack for mercy

the uneasy sheep

see dark clouds,

hear a rumble of thunder,

trouble on the way

a reality of great bough-breaking winds

and violent rain.

On the plantations,

oh mammy, run down to ruin,

the masters, the slaves,

the cotton long gone.

In the remains of rusted balconies

the house canary cowers in freedom;

in his glory days he sang

to the brittle parasols

of fancy women,

strutting through the hot summer,

lying languorous in winter,

cased in overheated rooms;

in all seasons watched

their lucent pink frocks removed,

saw their sweaty armpits

and satin undies

turn to dynamite

under the effective pressure,

the probing fingers

of eager customers

erect and ready

in burning lurid July,

in freezing rigid winter,

coming and going

up and down the stairs

and yellow bird singing

and in the parlor, Goodbye Barbarossa,

bearded dwarf, the performer,

fiddles and his shoes

creak softly on the floor.

Paid to the last dollar

the lot of them.

But there's more to whoring

than meets the eye,

more than the money;

this human act

brooks no merchant's contract;

no give and take makes us

lose faith in our lovers

out in the world,

our promises

made over and over

to no end, tools of the trade,

tired devices played out

while time devours our desire

even to put a face

on our loss of love,

on our legacy of disloyalty.

Well, let it be.

Even half-empty and debased

it pays to have a helpmate

on the long march;

hearth to heath to whorehouse,

incidental trips

to the girls of the evening

mean as much as anything,

at least more than you think.

Sorry, sorry,

the yellow bird that sings

his heart out

bright as he seems

in the moment,

immortal as a phoenix,

dies long before

you pay the bill

at both ends,

take your hat and coat

and say goodbye.

Fractious bloviating citizen, hatched out

of Goody No Shoes

in the back seat of a beat-up limousine

I will protect you;

like Cleonymus at Delium

shield thrower,

arrant coward on and off the battlefield

and the hustings, hide behind me

and God forgive me, I will protect you;

after the din of battle

take you to some quiet place

and wash away your dirt and tears;

there's always a chance for redemption,

a bargain with the Lord.

A long hard static show of force,

yea, Jacob and the angel, patientia!

A sincerity of contrition does wonders,

even with the Maker of wonders.

So I said. So I say.

Do I believe it?

Failing and falling

on my own account

will God protect me?

And who is God, after all?

Confronting the evil of this world

and not doing much about it.

The bible's despairing

better he who hath

not been, not seen

the evil done

under the sun

no comfort for us;

here we are

and here God is

and here evil is

evil aplenty.

Only begotten

young sweet Jesus

walking on the water

walking on the streets

Alpha and Omega of course,

perfect figure, perfect gift

of God's multifarious grace

and purpose;

the young Christ pictured

with the perfect proleptic halo

floating above his blessed head.

Picture him then at Galilee,

pushed into preaching

from a fisherman's boat,

hands outstretched

to the crowd, his divinity

feeling for the creases

in the fabric of the mortal world,

feeling the anchor

of his time on earth

losing its hold, relenting;

nail-driven son

of an eternity to come;

the doubtful cup

not taken from his lips

but drained to the lees.

Was his immortality

less important, less perfect

than his humanity?

Our citizen has no such

luxury of choice or consideration

no such foresight or certainty;

in his craven heart

he knows that

when he's dead he's done.

Christ knows

that even before the stone

rolls away from the tomb

for him everything changes;

a falling away, a destined release

and rising from the bounds

of life on earth.

Eat of the honeycomb

of no more substance

no more significance

than the vision of a ghost

seen by ordinary men.

Indeed, who is like God

save his son?

Revelation and inscrutability,

mortality and vulnerability

mix and blur.

Without the trimmings

and forced premises

are they one and the same?

Scornful Saint Michael

and the Prince of Darkness

together or apart can't tell us.

And the pity is

we don't really want to know,

leaving Arius' and Athanasius'

war to the knife

buried out of sight.

The motivation, the will to know

somehow

break down before we start

and nolens volens

we accept,

we embrace the mystery.

The truth is in old wood

stacked up in the back yard

the logs cracking open

with the passing years;

brought inside

easy work for the hearth fire

when winter comes.

This active old wood,

Laozi's uncarved wood,

breaking with the master

reveals its dry devotion

its ready sacrifice;

acolyte before the altar

blithely, eagerly embracing

the blazing destruction to come.