hymn #13

Lovely,
sanguine,
grand warrior
in the Holy Kingdom

-- O --

then the T-Bird honked,
ripped curtains,
shook pillars --

the Spirit fled.

Jezee’s luscious ass rippled
as she flew from Raven’s Nest and,
from the heart,
busted out gangster rap.

O

she was gorgeous in freedom.

The couple muttered,
“Sorry, it’s just that your sticker said ...”

Jezee,
in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot,
angel
less,
without comfort,
removed the cornerstone

-- the temple crumbled.

Waited 3 days for it to rise,
but it didn’t.
Lost dogs swallowed her.
Left nothing --
nor bone, nor skin.

(This started the to and fro of Dali’s clock.
The swing to an empty tomb.)

I suppose

the garage was as good a place as any.
Bob Dylan singing in the background,
garden at the doorstep.

(Man,
she loved lilac.
Though she always complained,
“It reminds me of death.”)

So
there she swung
in the smell of it.

Bishop
back from mission's work
-- agape love.
Bob Dylan wailing
-- agape love.
Garden in bloom
-- agape love.
Jezee in full swing
-- agape love
Death arching
-- agape love.

(All that's left is tearing out your hair,
ripping off your clothes,
gnashing your teeth,
and weeping.)

O

but the Son,

the Son cradles the world
while chronic shadows bloom.
From head to toe they bloom.
And Jezee rocks,
to and fro
she rocks.

And

Bishop,

the only absolutes
are shadows multiplying 7 x 7
and Jezee rocking an empty tomb

-- O --

yeah

and the sweet scent
from a lilac bush.

She Lived in The Hush Of life

She lived in the hush of life, 

free from the discord of the world.

She moved in a different kind of light,

in a path where angels whispered their comings and goings,

where truths were absolute and breathed in stone,

where teardrops evaporated into an eternal aurora.

In the chambers of her heart, a promise flowered

and pollinated and enriched her being.

In the evening, as she moved about the kitchen,

her fingers linear and alive created an aroma

that simmered in the space of her family's life.

Her symphony was the clink of a glass, the clank of a pot,

the chink of a spoon, laced by the song of her soul.

It would pour onto the earth, a call for the family to gather,

and we would come, appearing in the evening blue:

fireflies circling a pilgrim's candlelight.

Around the kitchen table, in an unbroken circle,

the youngest son would string notes together.

A progression that dispersed light in an even glow.

Congas resonated in gentle waves, tambourines released

the spirit, and light whirled and pulsated.

Her daughters would layer the song into second and third

then weave it in a harmony of delights.

We were saturated in vibrant warmth.

And so it went, late into the evening: the earth arced away,

the stars curved away, the moon dissolved into white,

and her sons played, and her daughters sang.

And by and by,

and by and by

through a corridor of fluttering light,

her husband passed through the wall of her life

and entered the unbroken circle, his tenor a breath in her lungs.

And by and by,

and by and by,

her father and mother passed into her life

and entered the unbroken circle, their song inhaled into her lungs.

And in the midnight of her hour, her brothers and sisters also gathered

and wove their song into her breath.

And so we circled

her candlelight

in a path where angels whispered

their comings and goings,

where truths were absolute

and breathed in stone,

where teardrops evaporated

into an eternal aurora.

In the hush

of her life

we released her.

In honor

and love

we released her.

O sun /flower

O
sun / flower
( hallelujah! )
rambunctious
golden petals
illuminate pink pebbles in a puddle
illuminate bedeviled black beetles
journeying on a dubious path

O

sun / flower

rambunctious
razzmatazz -- yes! -- razz/ma/tazz
zings six students skipping
zings a wise woman warbling
in mornings glistening cathedral
zings Lorena -- aye Lorena! --sneaking
in the rear door of Roberto‘s house

O
sun / flower
flame in the morning sky
blossom of my heart
essence of my being
splendor within
I meditate on your beauty

Today
I’m a monk
serene in your presence
surrendering to your flame

La Paloma Negra Belongs To The Mexican

“The Cathedral of The Redeemer --

yeah,

right,

and this is the celestial ceiling?”

El Viejo sells la calaca:

serape over its shoulder,

giant black sombrero on its skull,

ivory fingers strum a red guitar.

“Si,” he says,

“y la paloma negra

-- the black dove

-- belongs to the Mexican,

as does la guitarra,

el camaron,

mescal,

la cascabel.”

El Viejo offers muertos

and strums a corrido.

His wife accompanies with castanets.

“Aqui no hay tristeza,” they sing.

Here, there is no sorrow.

Their voices harmonic and ancient --

without polish, and the torture

of perfect pitch.

He thumps his chest,

throws back his head and howls.

His coyote-yell shreds my heart;

and the cold, culpable luna appears

over the vaulted sky,

but

already the moon wanes.

You

poor

old

son

of

a

bitch.

Beyond your curving shoulder,

my father’s church.

I hear the train whistle

on its way to Jerusalem.

Even now, his words wilt like morning glories.

I can’t recall the prayers,

or

the sermons.

I can’t recall the lyrics

of the gospel

-- the one he wrote

-- so I can sing,

sing

in this pinché valley.

Old man,

beyond your vision my mother dances

in fields of zenpasuchitl,

but the smell of onion and garlic

overwhelms the fragrance.

Must be the blessings,

the grace of a mother;

or

of a God in whose footsteps

she walked,

or

simply the longing

of a feathered heart.

“You know,” he begins,

“El Coyote y La Llorona

belong to the Mexican.”

“Stop that shit,” I demand,

"basta!”

And

for a second,

silence.

“And the cock,

Old Man,

does he belong to the Mexican too --”

Tejano Cornfields

The Harvest Moon is my companion to the Lonestar.
I speak to her, as I did the night
Itzel and I made mad-dog love
and left alien swirls in the cornfield.

The Texas Tornados belted out Laredo Rose,
and we hee-hawed like motherfuckers.
I said, "The moon is giddy-eyed."
She laughed till she peed her pants --
maybe it was the tequila.

The Ghost had no authority over me.
The crooked angel ascended,
nameless inspiration,
nameless fuck

-- I confess --

Itzel’s salty tongue had dominion
over my cherry-blossom heart.
It wasn’t God, nor love of church
designed my crown that night
-- no such notion.

My name glorious and profound in her breath,
in the ruckus of the wind,
in the sacred place at sundown
where stars are confetti.
And you -- you giddy-eyed bitch --
lit us up in living light.
Ha!
Ha!
Moonlight voyeur.

But what the hell am I doing here,

a John Deere, a rusted plow, a collapsed barn,
a chicken-coop, a crumbling six room barrack,
a collapsing 5x10x10 storm-cellar.

What the hell am I doing here,
a whirling, twirling dust devil.

What the hell am I doing here,
mi corazón,
the Texas Tornados crooning, My Cruel Pain,
and skeletons rattling in the cornfields.

Tejano Blues

Six shots,
and still I hear
the accordion wail.
Your foreign voice
-- you winga-wanga bitch
-- transforms my heart
into the neutered black dove
that assails old Mexican vaqueros.

I see you
in the light,
in the distance,
with el conjunto
fifty stones from where I sway
with mi hermano Cuervo.

Pinché India,
go back to Oaxaca.
Your hip-hop bolero
butchers my spirit
El bajo y las tamboras
has me dancing on this gravel road
that leads to your heart,
and la guitarra has me singing second
to your stifled first.

You say we’re too different.
Shit, mi morenita,
we’re both Mejicanos.

Well,
then,
tonight as you sleep,
I’ll go to you and sing
Las Mañanitas.

And you,
chingada luna,
ripe lime in a perfect sky;
if I had my 30-30,
I’d blast a hole in your man,
and let your juice drip
down my salty tongue.

yoli

(I can’t
articulate --)

We say, “The river is endless.”
This isn’t true.
It runs into a body of water.

We say, “The sea is boundless.”
This isn’t true.
It surfs from shore to shore.

We say, “The sky stretches forever.”
This isn’t true.
It extends from horizon to horizon.

// // // // // // //

O
spider,
speck above my head
- silk strand
- fragile line.
Where do you begin?

Is my forefinger and thumb
your inevitable end?

How do I measure

it -

squeeze & done.

// // // // // // //

(Today,
Yoli died.

Grief
can't be contained
in a teacup.)

What is its measure
- an orb
- a silk strand
- a forefinger
- a thumb.

(I can’t
articulate --)

Evening,
sun sets,
moon rises.
I drink my cup.

My head says, "It will be a lifetime."
My heart argues, “I will drink it forever."