Us again

this life is hard.
this life is a thing that gives you a bunch of super-flowers and shit
this life is something that is forever and yet short
this life means you have to have love
the one that looks at your broken-down rose
your idiocy
your bad behavior and your spite
there is someone there on the velvet sides of the stage
that can open an arm to you
a raggy wing
that can open an imperfect love
to you
it’s the only grace.
grace is always imperfect
the homeless man on the street with
the split pants is loved
his beer is big
his requirements are small
he is loved by someone
even if it’s only me in that second
is that all there is?
is that the cure?
The homeless man in his shredded pants and nodding questions
him sleeping on a couch left on the curb
that cast-off is being used sublimely
his small requirements
only some anonymous love
he may even not know about
but maybe he does
this is the god to consider.

tk 2013


Jesus and the Children

(church thoughts)

Blunt cross with a man on it
Stretching out his white canvas
Carmine run down his left rack of ribs
Vermillion circlet on his forehead
The slight flush as his hands clench and unclench full of dim peaches
As life teeter-totters out of him
And the milks of his eyes follow it up and down
The rose of his lips match the rose in the center of his chest
And petals part and split and part again
I like to think he smiles
And so do you
But I doubt it
As pure sacrifice is painful


Angel choir
With bright O’s as mouths
Beneath the man with all the colors
Their brown skinny bony chests
Moving up and down
In exaltation of a man they never knew
And that is some sort of miracle
That your bony body writhing above their heads
Makes children sing with all their souls
Do you deserve it?
These marvelous brown bones covered in thin dresses
Of every color
Wearing their best for you
They eat macaroni and cheese at home
And dodge something angry from their mothers
Maybe you give them hope
But somehow sometimes I don’t think so
They pass their babies around and make it work
They learn songs from scratch
They give their weekly dollar to the plate
They sing them in front of people that clap their guts out
And you keep bleeding on a dead man’s canvas

I think

The children are the ones with everlasting life
And the brightest things there are

I think meanwhile
I’ll kneel and worship them