Calling the Moon

A ballade:

Calling the Moon

 

Nicole walks through the park under the moon

along the dim-lit path. She does not see

the flowers, stones, and such—things that are strewn

along the trail because she’s lost in a sea

of thoughts of Chuck and how they’ll soon be three.

She walks and cries and tries not to feel this way—

it’s all too much, too much, this unborn baby.

She calls to the moon: Will you take me away?

 

So lost in thought she does not see the man

until he steps out from the dark. He’s scruffy

and scary looking, kind of dirty. She can

smell his unwashed flesh. And suddenly

a knife appears. And next he says, “You be

quiet bitch!” Silently she begins to pray.

He pushes her down hard, and quietly

she calls to the moon: Will you take me away?

 

She looks him in the eyes as he opens

his. Her newborn son’s balanced on her knees.

She strokes his ruddy face, touching again

his fragile hands and tiny toes and baby

hair and whispers softly, “My reality.”
She breathes him deep into her, all the way

‘til they are one. She wonders how could she

ever called the moon: Take me away.

 

And this is how she’ s found, hurt, torn, a sea

of blood. They pull her pants up gently and lay

a coat around her, hearing her say softly,

calling the moon: Will you take me away?

 

Purple Shoes

Purple Shoes

     –for John Cheatham

 

She stood before the class, dressed all in black

and wearing purple shoes. I first met her

all those many years ago, when I

was just sixteen and I first learned of poetry,

music, and Hemingway. And, of course, Jack

Kerouac. I first heard from Johann

Bach, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky, how light

his sound was, though it forced its way into

my head and heart. And then came Charlie Bird,

the way he flew—his notes still fill my day.

She taught of Christ, his tolerance, his words.

She spoke of Buddha, who brought a new way.

She changed the world, standing before the class,

dressed all in black, and wearing purple shoes.

 

(John Marguerrite Cheatham was a teacher I had in high school, electives at that not even English, that first introduced me to poetry–and I was off)

Grad School

Grad School

for Sylvester Frazier

 

Rumpled, he sits hunched over his desk,

pen scratching at a yellow legal pad,

a four-day growth on his face.

It would scratch his wife

if she were to kiss him.

But she’s been gone for weeks now.

After a long day of teaching

recent immigrants how to write in English,

after a battle through traffic,

he arrives at his one-bedroom apartment

to a dinner of Hungry Man turkey and mashed potatoes.

Instead of working on any

of the dozen of incomplete poems he has

or his essay on Jarrell that he’s been

working on for months now,

he begins to grade papers.

He reads their tales of coming to America

that are told in incomplete

complex sentences

and misspelled words:
peices, katch, uv.

He sighs, putting them away for another day

to take a shower, as hot as he can stand,

and then off to bed to sleep for six hours

and dream of those poems

of lost childhoods and battered towns.

Want Ads

Want Ads

 

Then Simon Peter, who had a sword, drew it and struck the high priest’s servant, cutting off his right ear.

–John 18:10

 

And one of them struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his right ear. But Jesus answered, “No more of this!” And he touched the man’s ear and healed him.

–Luke 22:50-51

 

I’m sorry Martha, but I had to quit

my job today—I just couldn’t go on.

We went to arrest this man today,

this false Messiah,

this Jesus fellow who travels around

with his mob and his miracles.

It started off easily enough,

or so I thought.

One of his own betrayed him,

turned him in with a kiss, of all the things.

We had been assured it would go easy,

but these things never do, it seems.

One of his men attacked,

of course the captain didn’t have us secure

the only armed man in the camp.

Everyone was so smug or entranced

by this Jesus that they ignored his servant,

myself included—I was a bit smug.

And that bastard cut off my ear.

There was a roar and then blood

as I stared at my ear on the ground.

And then the most amazing thing happened,

this Jesus fellow picked up my ear and put it back on me,

like I was a Mr. Potato Head.

I tell you Martha, I’ve never seen anything like it.

You’d better hand me the want ads.

 

 

Nothing to Forgive

Nothing to Forgive

 

They met outside of Nazareth, two men.

One tall and ropey, he had piercing eyes

and a soft smile. He was the Son of God.

 

The other, slight with a soft beard and smelled

faintly of lilacs. Christ walked up and placed

his hands upon his shoulders, looking deep

 

into his eyes. The man began to cry,

“Forgive me, I have lain with other men.”
Christ hugged him close to stop his sobs, then spoke.

 

“My brother, there is nothing to forgive.

My Father loves you.” And then Christ leaned in

and kissed him gently, gently, on the lips.

 

 

The Raft

The Raft

 

The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and beer gut,

hanging over my swim trunks like an extra cooler.

The can of beer between my feet sweated ice cold on me.

The sun never warmed my cans of beer,

they were finished too fast, like they were a miracle cure.

I learned that day you can drink faster from a can.

It wasn’t long before we hit our first sandbar, where we stopped

to talk and drink and have a sandwich and some chips.

The trip to the next sandbar scattered us out

as each canoe became a world unto its own.

Shane and I bitched about work and women—some guys have no luck.

The second sandbar someone broke out a bottle of Goldschlager

and we passed it around. That’s where I took my first spill,

right at the edge of the bar, where the water wasn’t deep.

Blood just gushed from my nose but dried quick in the sun.

The next sandbar someone broke out a bag of weed

and we sat in a circle in the creek talking about Bush and the Clintons.

And then the chill of the water turned warm, and we all scattered

as Aaron smiled sheepishly, said “Sorry.”

The next couple of hours was more of the same,

cold beer, soggy sandwiches.

We talked, we swam, and Ashley lost her top

at one point, a sight Shane and I were glad to see.

Jarrett tipped his canoe trying to dig out an empty can from the creek.

I was so drunk, I even lost my flip-flops.

Then we ran into an empty raft at one sandbar.

It was one of those large, black plastic rafts,

the kind that could hold six people.

It was empty and no one war around.

Inside we found a cooler half full of beer.

At the edge of the water was one of the paddles.

The girls just wanted to go, move on to the next sandbar.

The woods seemed to crowd the river’s edge

pushing at us as we entered it, though we didn’t go far

and after a couple minutes we quit looking.

We decided to go ahead and move on, but before we left

Jarrett stole most of the beers out of their cooler.

As we pulled up to the ramp we saw

several cop cars parked near the water’s edge.

While we were pulling out the canoes onto the ramp,

I tripped, skinned my knees and cut my foot,

a little half-moon smiles at me still.

We were tired, burnt, and feeling uneasy as the police

started questioning us about our day on the creek.

Even Jarrett lost his familiar bluster.

Had we seen some kids who had been missing?
We told them about the raft.

They sent us on our way, taking our names and numbers.

 

 

 

Love at First Sight

Love At First Sight

 

I was twelve when I first

noticed it, truly noticed it,

in the hands of Grandma’s

roommate’s son and daughter-in-law.

The white cylinder caught my eye,

and when held between my fingers,

felt cool, like the sheets at night

when I first crawled into bed

those summers, those vacations

from my life, my father,

from the emptiness my mother

left behind time and time again.

The way the smoke curled

in the Illinois breeze was a thing

of beauty, twistin, wrapping

on itself, curling into the clouds above.

Donna’s exhale was full, dense,

and yet, I could see through

it to my boyhood crush—

this girl-woman, barely twenty.

Even the scent intrigued me:

harsh, but somehow calling me.

“Can I try it?” I asked Grandma,

and she never could say no to me.

I didn’t even cough during that first

cigarette. Oh, and how it tasted—

primeval, angry, like I was.

How does something so wispy

fill one so full, capilaries opening,

vapor expanding until, at last,

you’re satiated.

 

It’s Not a Habit

It’s Not a Habit

In heaven now, I feel just like a god.

It’s not a habit, it is all still cool,

But then I sober up and grow so cold.

 

A drink or two, and you might think it odd

That this is how I feel alive, a tool

To get to heaven, to feel just like God.

 

It takes these pills, a handful, to grow bold

For just a little longer. But the rule

Is this: I sober up and then grow cold.

 

I do a few white lines. They make me nod

Yes!—that old feeling rising, a whirlpool

That sucks me down to Heaven, to be God.

 

The needle tears a hole, it grabs ahold

To take me up. You must think I’m a fool,

But when I sober up, it grows so cold.

 

No, you don’t know, you’re on the other side.

It’s not a habit, it is all still cool.

In Heaven now, I feel just like a god.

But then I sober up, and grow so cold.

 

 

On Turning 33

On Turning 33

 

There was  a man whose name was Jesus Christ

who died in Israel just about two

thousand years ago—just thirty-three,

the very same age I have turned today.

I hope things turn out different. Goddamn,

another whole twelve months have passed—a year.

 

He walked the land and taught for three whole years

and called Himself the Son of Man, the Christ.

I was baptized last year, but still feel damned.

I think it is the drugs I do. And too

much drinking. I just can’t seem to stop. Day

after day I pray to the trinity.

 

I’ve begged God for relief, for what now, three

years since I’ve been saved, but these past few years

I haven’t changed a thing. In fact, the days

just blend into one endless blur. Oh Christ,

do I have to do this one more year or two

of this? Is this what it’s like to be damned?

 

He walked the land so long ago—oh damn,

I’m so unworthy of His love—the three

in one godhead. But there’s the other two…

I’ve hated the Father for so many years,

never “got” the Spirit, loved the Christ—

I’ve tried to work that out these last few days.

 

We partied all week long for my birthday—

a lot of coke, some Ex, and all that damned

alcohol, not wine like the man Jesus Christ

turned water into. I puked two or three

times. God, the last time that’s happened’s been years,

or quite some time at least. I would like to

 

have one last go around ‘fore it’s time to

head off to reahab for a day

or two. Ha ha! Been quite some time, few years

in fact, since I’ve been to one of those damned

places. This one’s faith-based—blessed trinity—

the Father, Spirit, and my fav, the Christ.

 

It’s all too much, I can’t take this damned life

anymore, not for a day or three—

no more years, I’ll go meet my Christ.

 

The Man in the Mirror Speaks for the Last Time

The Man in the Mirror Speaks for the Last Time

From lids half-closed they stare, blue eyes meet blue,

Tired, wearied from the added weight of those two

Dark circles. Bitter smoke

Rises, to sting red eyes it must sneak through

Thin lashes that stand guard—a tired, lonely few.

 

From your wide, flat nose, six small black hairs grow—

Both on and in. Your forehead starts to furrow—

Hair line now simply a joke.

Sugar and coffee, cigarettes take their toll,

And now, crooked teeth rot—you grin yellow.

 

You stare at the face that hides behind this dirty

Mirror. I ask: Why have you shown such treachery?

Beaten, battered, broke—

No sleep, the bars, the fights, too much Ecstasy…

You made this Mirror-Man, who’s not yet thirty.