Directions Concerning His Bones

(Hebrews 11:22)

not in

Egypt,

boys, nor

Goshen,

land of

father’s

latter

sojourn—

but plant

me deep

in ground

the Lord

himself

has named

for one

who brawled

with him

till dawn—

case me

not in

coffin

wood, so

even

tongueless

I will

taste the

blood of

Canaan,

to be

spilt by

Yahweh

in his

fury

for the

rising

of the

day of

one whose

beard will

drip with

fragrant

oil from

God’s own

horn of

choosing—

(2009)

A.D.D.

the/ and/ some/ why
boy/ a/ things/ am
walked/ car/ are/ i
his/ zoomed/ out/ thinking
dog/ by/ of/ about
down/ at/ place/ the
the/ high/ in the/ car
street/ speeds/ suburbs/ this much?

Will I know?

Will I know…
how to fold shirts
how to fall off a bike
how to pull the cord
how to flip the switch
how to shut it off
what to say
what to wear
what to drink
what to forget
what to remember
why to care
why to stay
why to cave
why to fight
why to love
when to stare
when to leave
when it hurts
when to feel
when you die

The Bruise That Never Heals

Painfully, oh painfully

My teacher

Welps will help

Recall

The heady draughts

Of sacred fire

Burning down

Like tracts

Through my arm

Helped by the scourge

of Divine harm

Eugene Fuqua

If Eugene Fuqua had lived,

he’d have been sixty-five this year

(same as my father,

his childhood best friend,

who did not make it to sixty-five either,

on account of cancer).

But his car went off a bridge in Clio, Alabama,

and he drowned at sixteen.

His mother always suspected foul play.

Using a different structure…..

In my tattered soul a sense,
A disparate, refracted ray
Melancholy paced miles ahead
The drumming depths of hope’s dread
Like a beast-born bray

My sins, their boots thumping strong
My soul, like carpet, old, with worn
Path down center as tread
And guilt like a gut full of lead
Repentance lies stillborn

Will God’s own hand improve
Its force to nudge this sinful mule
Further down the path thin?
Or does his Spirit not contend
Anymore with a fool?

Methinks that we grow tired of grace
The more that we dine
We long for stranger meat and fare
We tire of sun and freshened air
We trade the sweet for the rind

And even the bitterness dulls
Of sin that we endure
And one long drudgery it becomes
To even fill your stomach’s rungs
And all things taste impure

Until the night is a red haze
And day too dimly seen
And all noises hum like bees
And warmth won’t thaw the freeze
Of your black heart’s thumping

We crave the salt of the tear
When altar horns are gripped
And sorrow’s cheer is never felt
And we who knew with whom we dwelt
Never knew how far we slipped

And for the heart to feel a sting
Like wine swirled in a grail
And the crack of broken bread
The pain of thorns upon Christ’s head
The whipping of the flail

And for a soul too sick to feel
Or wince in sympathy’s behalf
I pray the prey of my regret
Won’t slip the throw of heaven’s net
Nor exceed the stab of its gaff

My Simple Request

Speak to me in a language without bones,

words without form,

sounds without distinction,

purely impression,

dictation enfolded in experience,

A boundless gelatine of expression and profundity,

Silent fervour, and a daybreak of nuances

Like a white sheet bleached

Execution in Saigon

The shutters open

And close in

Rapid

Sequence a few

Seconds of silence

Before the report

Sharp and shrill

The smell of gunpowder

And burning film

Thick, mingling

Shots amid a shot

And all the crows

Fly away with

The dissipating soundwaves

And the butcher has

Paid his bill

The law is served

But the images have wings

Which outfly the birds

And tell their own

Biased stories

A technical description of a meltdown

Sorrow initializes

And her eyes fail to

Contain escaping

Liquids that begin

Hemorrhaging out

Gravity can’t push

Because viscosity

And the tears puddle

Up on her high cheek

Sands and sands and sands

In my memory

Through a glass

Of self-importance and judgment

I see a white beach

And the waves are formed in ranks

Marching and marching endlessly

Towards the battle

Between land and sea

Eroding away and pulling back

Sands and sands and sands

Into the stream

Back into the sea

And back to the beach

And one day caught

In a flustering of wind

Whipped into a frenzy

Whirring and blinding the beachgoers

And there stands I

Like an idiot

Or is it just childlike faith

Oblivious in its own enjoyment

Of the ongoing erosions?