MAUNDY THURSDAY IN HELLS KITCHEN

And there he was on bended knee
eyes fixed on her swollen feet,
and when she shuddered at his tender touch,
he paused, gave her a moment,
let her take in the bruises and blisters,
her dust-streaked toes, her calloused heels,
before dipping his hands in a bowl
of clear water, cupping it until
little pools formed in his palms,
and then, gently, did what no one 
ever dared, touched her there,
tenderly, like a lover. No romance.
Just the sure grip of someone who cared,
and as he did, she recounted all the long nights
on backroads, over borders,
the way she shuffled forward some 
thirty-three years, and now here, finally
ready to say goodbye, to let the pain go,
	to become someone else,
	to become someone new.

FIELD NOTES #40

A spider weaves its web in the arms of a lawn chair.
It looks for prey and ignores the sunlight caught between the silk.

An old pine bends over a plot of brown grass.
Confused, it wonders why nothing seems to grow. 

Across the yard I lock eyes with a saint’s plaster gaze:
maybe he can teach me what it means to be alive. 

𑁍𑁍𑁍

Gnats dance in the summer heat.
Blades of grass rise to meet the sun.
Hiding beneath my covers 
I ignore your gentle pull:
save the early bird for better birds
I was raise to hide from morning.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

	10,000 years pass by.
Raindrops dance along your forehead.
I try to remind myself that life happens
	one wound at a time.

	We stop by the store to pick up fresh roses.

You say you hate the color red.
Of all the things I should’ve said
none now come to mind—

	riding off for war,
the soldier forgets the taste of home.

FIELD NOTES #39

Bodhidharma sits idle:

	his feet forget to hit the floor.
	
Eons pass under open eyes,

	seedbeds become forests,

			fire rages 

and reduces the hillside to ash.

	For all his stoic attention

	he never lifts a finger—

his lidless glare like high beams:

the last thing you 

	see before you crash

FIELD NOTES #38

The whole world pressed against your bent back
following the curve of your spine 
the way the sun dips past the ridgeline
and settles just south of the horizon,
your black veil like the night sky, your tears
running down your face like shooting stars
your grief hidden from view save for the slight
shudder of your shoulders as you stand
over the open earth and wait for the sky to weep.

The rain never comes. And by the time 
you say goodbye, the sun settles for the night, 
your only company the shattered starlight
passing through your broken gaze,
all the world silent save for the steady
beating of your heart and the silent rise
	of your barren chest.

I try to picture life without you,
try to imagine a world where your absence 
makes sense. But all I can seem to muster
is the rustle of your hair, the wind winding
through the grass like my fingers passing
through your tattered mane, my lips 
agaisnt your pale cheek: a protest against the world.

FIELD NOTES #37

      Gray rain clouds
obscure whatever left of the sun

Somewhere along the Emmaus road
two men come face to face
       with death.

      Bombs in Gaza
fall in silent waves.
       No one really screams
they just wait and hold their breath.

No one knows why the gun jammed,
        only that it did.

                        Praying for a miracle
                  they ignored the dying kids.

FIELD NOTES #35

Its odd to imagine that we spend
most of our lives spinning, dancing
in concentric circles around
some unfamiliar pole, never once
stopping, always moving, the earth
holding its course like a diligent
sailor setting out to open sea.

For once I’d like to know
what its like to be the sun,
to lay back across the black abyss
and watch the planets dance:
some ancient observer looking up
	in the sun saw a god—

		what is god but gravity, 
		the pull that sets you free.

FIELD NOTES #34

The dark circles under your eyes
sweep across your cheeks like craters,
the long years pooling in the hollow dip,
the way rainwater fills an empty pothole.

As a child, we’d sit by the fire
and you would recite the stories
your father told you—I barely listened
all I saw were the shadows 
dancing along your cheekbones
and how the firelight faltered
in the round of your vacant eyes.

Looking in the mirror I see 
the same shadows under mine—the long years
you passed down, the dying fire’s light.
It takes a splash of cold water
to will them away, to see clearly,
let the light in, and survive another day.

FIELD NOTES #33

Wrapped in hotel sheets 
the sun peeks through the shades,
pale ribbons of soft yellow light hiding 
the morning's accusatory glare.

You shimmy out of your clothes and let
the water run—rivers spilling down your back
the way rapids cut down cliff-sides or how
tears trickle down the Madonna's marble face. 

		Innocence—never quite simple:
		You woke up a bodhisattva,
		a lotus wrapped in linen robes.

FIELD NOTES #32

They said when he saw a patient
he’d take their hands in his and mutter
under his breath, a cross between
diagnosis and prayer, a holy 
incantation to comfort
the dying and demoniac.
Nowadays, we’d call him a fool.
Dismiss him before he spoke.
All because we're too scared of
things we refuse to understand:
We split Gaia down the middle
	just to let her blood run
	in black ribboned bands.

FIELD NOTES #31

Without warning the rain beats against the glass,
a thousand little bullets crashing lifeless
against the translucent plane.
From where i'm sitting, the fury dissolves
into a harmless whimper, the slow
rumble of thunder like a lion's gentle purr.

But the rattle of shutters is nothing
compared to the coming storm.
When bombs like hail stones streak through the sky
and air raid sirens scream bloody murder.
The sudden silence is a sigh of relief.
You pause to take a breath and then come the tears:

	they say when God cursed Sodom
Lot left the city—the howls still ringing in his ears.

FIELD NOTES #30

Dipping in and out of present-time
I slip between the cracks of
my father's floorboards
and settle at the bottom
of a jet black lagoon,
water lapping at my haggard face
the way our pup would
wake us up, back when
things were simple and 
blessings came in threes.
Lions, tigers, and bears
boarding two by two:

	she can see it in your eyes,
	the sun is setting soon.

FIELD NOTES #29

Suddenly, I'm a boy again,
my eyes just level with your knees,
following the trim of your pantleg
to the crown of your head
where it sits between the clouds,
the sun just behind your brow,
like Saint Joseph, or Gabriel,
or any of the other nameless holy men
saints count among their number.

You could measure the distance between us
in feet but little more than four, you
might as well be using leagues.
 
Little did I know that I would grow
to fill the gap and by the time I was 
old enough to look you in the eyes
I found it was a stranger looking 
	back in mine.

Your once cheerful smile was
replaced with a set of frown lines.
Your bright amber eyes set in
dark circles like stormclouds.

	I never asked why.

But with a son of my own
I think I understand:
from where he sits, with his 
hand in mine, all he can see
is the father he needs,
the saint with the halo,
the man who doesn't bleed.
One day he'll look up
and see me for what I am:
a tired old man, more sinner
than saint, wishing that his 
boy was still about four
and all the years between
were nothing but a dream.

FIELD NOTES #28

You think you'll put it down,
finally relieving yourself of
	all that weight.
You find a clearing, toss your pack,
and throw yourself down
on a bed of green grass. 
	
But you know and I know,
its only for a moment,
and just as your back
sings with relief
the trailhead beckons 
and your back on your feet.
		
	You have miles to move
			and miles to move,
				and only so much sun.

	So you pick up your pack,
	pull tight your straps,
	and force your feet to run.

FIELD NOTES #27

It happened like this:

you ordered a latte light and sweet
         and head over heels I
spilled what was left of my coffee,
wincing as if waking from a dream,
all the could've beens and should've beens
running down my hand and pooling
         on the floor.

                           I never saw you again

                  and just like that
                  winter was over.

Sometimes, I wish for snow
when all I've got is spring,
or to run into a stranger
I thought I'd never see again.
         
𑁍𑁍𑁍

They look so small, a
jumble of black dots
traversing a gray map.
Each one plodding down
their predetermined path.

Of course, up close
they move as if free
but against the backdrop
         of open sky
their frantic movement slows
and you begin to see the beats—

         you'll never get anywhere
         staring at your feet.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

Concrete petals

         don't flutter

                           they fall—

somewhere between open sky
        and asphalt

                you realize you're free.

FIELD NOTES #26

I feel as if I’ve emerged from a dark tunnel, 
all too aware of the brightness of the sun, 
eyes half-closed gingerly inching my way forward, 
cautious and uncertain, yet confident all the same. 
In time, I know my eyes will adjust to the light, 
will learn again to take in the full-throated call of morning, 
but for now I inch forward, grateful the long night is past, 
          walking upright in the cool of the day.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

Isn't it ironic that the
things that complete us
also leave us feeling empty.
Better off for having had them,
worse off when they're gone.

We cling too tightly to stones
made for skipping—all our light
trapped, caught between our 
        calloused palms.

FIELD NOTES #25

It happens all at once:
the snow settles in
and the evening breeze
rolls across the moonlit
walk—cold breath
like outstretched hands
grasping at the night sky,
and all of us here,
braving the storm—
tender words like firelight
to keep us nice and warm.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

To tarry. To walk as if
on angels wings.
To sit in silence and 
feel the breeze,
wasting time for 
silence sake. There
in that crevice 
     between
holy and unaware
you find the strength
to keep on going:

god is found in plodding through.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

I took the old road,
passing through rows
of shattered shrines,
and lay my head
between the stones
of saints still begging
for god's forgotten time:

	Give us just a minute.
	We promise to be quick.

		You'll find a real prayer
			on a set of somber lips. 

FIELD NOTES #24

The wise man writes because there's
little left to do when you have nothing
	left to say.
A paradox to be sure. Speaking and
writing are opposite sides of the same coin. 
But one comes easy, a quick slip of the tongue
	and your off to the races:
	
		saying god knows what about
		god knows who (all our
		idle chatter the pent up
		fear of a soceity that
		listens to little).

Sometimes, the only thing to do
is shut up, listen, and let
the pen go. Be quick to think,
slow to speak. And when all else
fails, crumble up the ink stained page
	and do it all again. 

Maybe, if our congressmen spoke less and
	wrote more, we'd have less war.

	In a world of full of rash facts 
	and brass tax, pen and ink
	seem quite germane—

				the poet learns to speak
			when he has nothing left to say.

FIELD NOTES #24

Winter comes in waves:
first, it’s the chill,
then, it's the wind.
Before you know it you're
knee-deep in snow
and praying for spring.

One moment you were there,
bright-eyed and smiling,
that grin between your ears
like a row of gravestones,
all polished and new.

	We should’ve saw it coming.

The next time we spoke
you were garish and gray,
huddled over the toilet
and looking at your red 
Reflection dancing in the bowl.
	It was winter
	and you were cold.
But between the dry heaves
you pointed out the first 
	signs of snow.

		Winter comes in waves.
			tears do too.

Who can think of spring
while snow settles on your tomb?

FIELD NOTES #23

I've never once met a man
who didn't know who he was
(delusion seems to run deep).
But in the ramshackle borders
of everyday living, delusion is about
       as good as we can get:

The postman humming,
skipping down the street,
is more of a poet than I'll
       ever be.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

I've died a thousand times
and a thousand times again.

All those prayers and all those years
settle beneath the sand,
only to emerge and gasp for air.

But the dead don't breathe
       and neither do I.
       
              This city of bones
              just skulls piled high.

A prophet once said:
let the dead bones rise.

                     You're silent as the grave,
                            dead or alive.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

Life is like a clear stream
tumbling down a mountain's edge:
liquid sunlight spilling out
into wide open canyons
as if the earth itself was
desperate for a drink.

Of course, there's the drop off,
the plunge just past the end,
brown bile polluting
the last bit of sun caught
between the currents.

There, everything you see is
pond-scum and algae.
A thin film of death
you can't seem to break through,
and all that's left of light
     is something like a word 
     on the tip of your tongue,
     clinging for dear life.

But it's just as your about
to give up hope the water
     turns the bend
and all you can see is open
ocean before the ride begins again.

FIELD NOTES #22

I buy second hand books
because the thought of unturned pages
         disturb me:
give me all the coffee stains,
the dog ears, yellow pages and
cracked spines. The footnotes written
in red. The quiet questions
         scribbled in black.
There, in that treasure trove,
you'll discover a kindred soul,
and find between the margins
a world just like your own.

𑁍𑁍𑁍

Branded a pest, the spotted lanternfly
finds a nifty notch beneath my boot,
       (red wings like clay paint 
       smeared across the cheek bone).
       Like soldier-boys who die
       so far away from home.

              The wrong place
              The wrong time.
              Wearing the wrong stripes.

We die like spotted lanternflies,
       crushed and left for dust.