O Little Rooster, O Little Cock

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

He presses his stomach 

against the curve of her back.

"We should never have had any kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico.

And I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife,

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

"What an ass," she says, clenching her fist.

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon presses against the windowpane.

Its sovereign light undresses her;

she pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he adored roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, dogs bark,

and cowbells clang.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.

"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him?"

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

His stomach presses against

the curve of her back.

"We should never have had kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico;

and I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

What an ass he was."

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon pushes against the windowpane,

and its' sovereign light undresses her.

She pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, the dog barks,

and there's the clang of cowbells.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him.

Santa Fe

The sky is bluest

in the clean, thin mountain air

of Santa Fe.

Seven days in the city

of Holy Faith,

but my faith is anything but holy.

It's 3:30 a.m.

The cottonwood's arms scrape the window,

as rain thrums a web 

and unsettles a lover in a mad tango.

My woman sighs and says,

"I've always loved you."

I roll out of bed

and, in the dark, I reach for my clothes.

By 4:30 a.m., I'm on the road to Albuquerque.

My thoughts are on the hot air balloon

that, for a while,

will suspend me above the earth,

above the rattle and hiss of the world,

above the candle burning on the horizon.

The clouds are icebergs

floating in an azure sea

carried past Sandia peak.

"How's the weather in Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

"A Heatwave is blasting the city," I reply.

"My brother says the sky is hazy, dirty."

"Do you like the Midwest," he continues.

I shrug, " I love the city."

The roar of the flame drowns my voice,

and the hot air balloon rises.

I think of the adobe house

at the foot of Cristo De Sangre mountains

and the soft, warm body waiting for me.

"I drove by Chicago back in '94," the pilot says,

"So, how do you like living in the Midwest?"

The balloon brushes a treetop,

the Tampa Bay newlyweds squeal.

I shrug, "It's okay."

No one listens.

Coyote yelps, and his brothers begin to sing

and the moon dissolves.

He streaks across open space, 

and the young lovers scream with excitement.

He lifts his tail, and excrement streams through the air.

"So, how do you like Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

I mumble, "I loved a woman there once."

But no one cares,

as the hot air balloon descends

and the land of enchantment unfolds

before an ascending sun.

evening notes #2

2

 "On the riverbank, there's a boat. The path you follow leads to the Jordan River ..."

How amazing is the Creator? Our sun, a perfect size and at an ideal distance, warms Earth as it spins on its axis and circles our life-giving star; it, in turn, orbits our galaxy at the outskirts of the Milky Way, and the Milky Way spirals as it moves through space. It has been going on for billions of years. Everything is moving somewhere, someplace.

Of late, my mind dwells on the grand scheme, or I do it more often. Anyway, the whole time Alice and I converse, I'm on autopilot. I feel I'm in another reality, as if I'm swimming in a river, and its current gently pushes me through space. I'm neither on Earth nor in heaven. I may be in a higher plane of consciousness. All I know is, at this moment, I'm not entirely here, and I feel a presence like a sun's touch on my skin, a warmth that permeates my being. That's what I'm experiencing as I drop Alice off.

Mary is at home. She left work early because of pain in her legs, and It's disconcerting. I hugged her three times. I do everything in threes. It's a dumb superstition like not stepping on cracks or not walking under a ladder, but more importantly, I'm having a running conversation with God. I ask Him for strength as I hug Mary Ann three times. Each time I hug her a little tighter and a little longer. Mac, Jessica, Junior, and Mary's precious granddaughter, Sol, are there. I hug them all as if embracing can remove their fear and pain. In reality, I'm just trying to comfort myself. I say my goodbyes and walk out the door. I smile and tell myself everything is fine. It's all good.

Outside, children head home from school, a mother walks her baby, a couple of guys argue about the Chicago Bulls' weak defense, and a tabby chases a squirrel across the street and up a tree. Everyone and everything goes about their lives as the Earth spins through space, and we continue our journey. I'm overwhelmed with emotion. I get in my SUV and drive away but turn into the first parking lot I see and sob. I'm in a strange state of mind as my sorrow quickly gives way to peace and tranquility. I feel the Spirit embrace me, and I'm comforted. I sit and let it all out -- all the sorrow, all the pain -- until all that's left is the hum of tires on asphalt, the wind rustling leaves, and the chatter of people going about their daily lives. To the West, the sun illuminates billowing clouds. It's ethereal, and I'm calm and serene as I immerse myself in Living Waters.

"Mary, we are burdened by oars we create and carry throughout our lives, but at the end of our travels, they help us navigate across the Jordan River to The Promised Land. The Spirit will be the guiding lamp on your voyage. On the opposite riverbank, mom and dad will be waiting for you. Be brave, my sweet niece, life is just beginning..."

Counting Crows - This Land is Your Land - 7/4/2012 - Codfish Hollow Barn...

Sam I Am

My thoughts drift to Molly's plump ass, and how I'd like to spank it, bite it, kiss it, and mold myself around it. That's when Sam comes around the corner and stands there smiling, and I smile back. You know, one of those dumbass grins that say, "OH shit! You caught me." But Sam can't read my thoughts, except that he's a Christian. For a second, I think he might start prophesying, "God told me you're having impure, nasty, nasty thoughts about Molly's perfectly round bottom, and he wants you to know before the rooster crows three times your penis is gonna shrivel and fall." Or something to that effect. Anyway, he stands there with an angelic smile, and I say, "How's it going, Sam-I-Am?"

"Oh, fine," he says, "much better since I had the growth on my tongue removed. Small, really, but it was painful and bothersome."

Then I remember Debbie mentioning Sam battling cancer a few years back. "Oh yeah, didn't you have cancer a while back?" I mumble and think, I'm fucking smooth, a master conversationalist.

"I'm terminal. The doctor gave me five years. If I'm lucky." Well, shit, how do you respond to that? "I'm, uh ... wow." I sputter, but I guess it's better than, "I hope you make it to five."

"No, it's fine. It's a blessing. God has given me so many opportunities to witness. Before, I couldn't see beyond my nose, but now I see the lilies in the field, the sparrows in the trees. Before, I was a miserable human being; now I see His glory all around me."

"Well, God bless you, brother. You know, my old man was a Baptist minister, and I've been reevaluating my life—the spiritual. I mean, at one point, I was really involved in my old man's church and considered attending seminary after graduating from college. I monitored a Hebrew and Old Testament class at Northern Baptist Seminary, but it wasn't for me at the time. You know, where I was at and shi--tuff. Not a good place. I guess a lot of meaning for my life must be rooted  in the cross at Golgotha." He wells up, and I stiffen and look away.

"I prayed to God today," begins Sam, "that He give me two people so that I may witness to them. He gave me a brother from my church, and He gave me you." He pauses, then says, "During lunch, may I pray for you?"

"Sure," I divert my gaze, and a ray of light reflects off my sunglasses and bursts at the tip of my nose. The Star of David, I think, as I walk away. "See you at lunch, Sam-I-Am."

Who doesn't need a little prayer once in a while? Who doesn't need positive thoughts now and again? Who doesn't need someone caring for them from time to time? Who in the hell doesn't need a little mothering now and then?

In the distance, I see Molly, and she waves. I watch her strut towards her car. "O, Lord!" I say a quick prayer for myself, then one for Sam. Justification. Sanctification. By grace. Yeah, that's what it is, I think, and I head for the men's room to wash my dirty hands.

Dissonant Bells

A procession of cars --
A chorus of sparrows --

Their morning spiritual sits heavy on my chest.

The church bell disintegrates my bones,  

Extinguishes tongues of fire that dance above my head, 

Silences mad utterances that rattle my teeth. 

  

(I recall honey-laden bees --

The hill of shooting stars --
Its' fragrance lost in Irish locks,  

And the dissonant bell on the day of rest
That dislodged my skull.) 

  

The procession continues

Towards the Tabernacle of Saints and Sinners. 

  

(And to think, flame at my window,  

Once you burned across my world.)