Questions
In what tongue is the word of God?
Does anyone think He speaks Greek, Hebrew, Latin, Arabic, Sanskrit, or English?
Seems a bit provincial doesn’t it?
How does he speak with cats, rabbits, dogs, or fish?
How, pray tell, does he dialogue with the cockroach,
does he do it in a Texas accent?
Does he listen if you talk back in the wrong tongue?
If I wait long enough will I get an answer?
Doors
Door,
a word you can conjure with,
every door contains a mystery,
and every time we open one,
we cannot be certain what will be on the other side,
no matter how many times we’ve opened it.
Sparrow
Ran over a dead sparrow with the lawn mower,
probably going to need a new mower.
Tossed what was left of it into the compost heap with the yard trimmings.
So the sparrow eventually ends up in my wife’s flower garden,
perhaps incarnated as a daffodil, or some such,
don’t know really know to much about what kind of flowers she grows,
but they do make the yard look nice.
Last Supper
A friend said to me,
you live to eat, I eat to live.
I’ve never felt more sorry for anyone.
Most days are just a matter of hanging on till the next tiny island of joy,
in the middle of a vast ocean of suffering.
The good never can outweigh the bad,
the scales will never balance,
and this is why I love food.
Unadulterated pleasure,
without complications,
and never more than mere hours away.
That’s how I get through a day,
thinking, always, in the back of my mind,
what will I make for dinner tonight?
Today is hot, miserably hot,
how about a refreshing gazpacho and some crusty bread?
There is more pure goodness in an honest bowl of soup,
than an assembly of saints.
There is more truth in the clean taste of fresh parsley,
and the subtle bite of good garlic,
sliced thin,
than there is in the law and the prophets,
and no one needs to live forever when one has eaten so well,
he is prepared to die.
Response to Birthday Letters
A Response to Birthday Letters
by Christina M. Hile
http://ragbone.wordpress.com/page/8/
We came into the world together,
or at least I can no longer recall a world where there was an I without a you,
Your sorrow will always be my sorrow,
but do not think that there is land where I can exist,
happy,
apart from you.
How could there by joy any land deprived of your
curiously fey grin,
the music of your shy laughter,
the glow of your xanthous skin,
or the conviction of your embrace.
Ode to The Tomato
I long to pluck you from the vine
to take you as you are simple, fresh, whole,
into my mouth.
To taste you so, you your naked simplicity.
Perhaps later I will dress you simply with olive oil,
and coarse sea salt,
Later still, perhaps, I will coax from you the secrets you are loathe to share
with a little red wine.
Retail Blues
I’m done.
I cannot bear the weight of another smile,
fuck no I won’t have a nice day,
nor will I take care,
or “have a good one.:
Have a good what exactly?
aneurism,
stroke,
heart attack,
bout of palsy?
A plague on you sir,
and to hell with you,
to hell with your good day,
you can keep the change,
save up for that clue you’ve always been wanting.
