From the chilly apartment

:::Editors Note::: Blogger keeps screwing up the formatting on the poem. It tells me there will be indentations and then it takes them away. Lo siento. Thats the way it its. ::End Note::

I fear this one is a little dark. Or a lot dark. I have been running around with a cadre of artists lately. Working for them rather. Raking leaves. Ripping apart quilts. Doing other peoples dirty laundry. Normal stuff. There are proper polished portraits in the studio. Children laughing on a bench together. A dignified gentleman. Normal stuff. Then there are the bizarre ones. Hubcaps with wires and a crucifix in bronze and black. A nude burgeoning attached to the roots of the earth. A portrait of a girl in a green dress who is beautiful at first look and second look and even fourth but the fifth shows her to be bound and blindfolded. Normal stuff.

This kept coming whilst walking back and forth from house to out buildings on one or another task. I polished from the poet throne. (Which is not a toilet- it's a longed for chair. Pictures eventually…when the cat lets me put the bed down)

While the Christ Hung Dying in Mid-day Night (Ipswich 11/26/07)

Two boys there (small)
With stones in hand
And cornered, a cat (cowering)
And the stones flew
For in the market they had seen it
Their fathers doing justice
Following the Law (perfect)
Purging the sinful from the world
Calling out the sins as sentence (stones) fell
And are not all guilty of sin
Thus this mother cat (unwed)
Must have secrets (lecherous)
Must be removed
But for the (troublesome) bent woman (ancient)
Who came cackling
Rebuking the boys
"Wanton killers
Untamed beast children
Fear you not God (omnipresent)
Or the Law (perfect)"
And they ran- but laughing
And they laughed- but also they ran
And they did not mock the hag
Away the (broken) cat limped
Into the alley (shadowed)
Where the soldier (former)
Deserter lurking
Watched the beauty (girl-youth)
About to pass by
As on previous days
Grabbed her (virginal) (screaming)
Fulfilled his deed
Ran
Fearing God (omniscient)
Fearing the Law (perfect)
Fearing the sobs (post virginal)
Fearing men (fallen)
All while the Christ hung dying
(Agonized) eyes closing at "finished" to mark the stop
God-Man (naked) perfect and dead
And the great God (omnipotent)
Closed His eyes impossibly– curtains rent
Counted to ten– children wailed
Ever so slowly– dogs howled
Opened them– (mid-day) night ended
And all could be forgiven
Though the cat (girl)– alone
Did not outlast the darkness

-Jn

Picture = Acadia

My world is working its way into rights now. I have a wee apartment and a parking space off the street. The front door is cranberry to match the juice in the fridge. I have laundry and dish cleansing machines for my personal convenience and I can make tea any time of day. My clothes have homes in drawers and on hangers which is better than suitcases because it is easier to find items and remember that they are owned and loved and should be worn more. I have pieces of me scattered everywhere to remind me of who I was and who I will be and the walk between the two places. I have a chair to sit in and ponder and write about the journey. Every time I turn around I find something new that I needed or wanted or missed that I didn’t even know was lacking but I can now claim for myself again. My soul makes little happy sighs and life is good. It’s like little waves brushing up against the beach of a cove when the tide is coming in, small push-pulls taking away the stress of hundreds of days homeless and leaving scattered treasures for a shell seeker. I know things now about what I can and cannot do and I more deeply know friendship, answered prayer, comfort, and love. And now I can scribble my collected know’s down for keeps in the battered yellow poet-throne that I have been waiting on for countless days. It’s coming back home though I’ve never been here before. It’s rebecoming human.

Look a penny!

Dirty Feet (Ipswich 10/31/07)

The world. The world. It swirled, the world, and white was black was white was color. And then the words in twos and fours impatient came and called names, laid blame. And the silence was violent and empty and the stillness was full of sounds. Alone was undone and I was the one put paid to for dirty hands.

Why? I didn’t understand.

And I righted what was left I thought and I begged and I bought but the prices were high and I couldn’t fly anymore. Dirty wings.

Oh the things I would sing and I would sing and sing and the people would bring flowers and gifts and children with fits would calm and give alms in the streets.
No.
There were taunts and jeers and I fled in tears. Streaked face, my face, my dirty face.

The colors used to dance for me in this magic book and the words would flow in to steady rows and salute. I’m destitute. I’m alone. And I go and I go. I’m trying to grow. To be bigger. To be stronger, branches get longer. Why can’t I just leave?
No.
Dirty feet.

Feet wont walk. Mouth wont talk. Eyes won’t see. Hands grope and hands touch. Hands sense and hands feel. “What is there? What is there Dirty Hands?”
Dirty hands.

“Be clean. It’s a dream. Wake up. Please wake up.” And I tear at my skin. Let me in. Let me in. Let me out. Get me out of this place. A well? A hell? A falling for sure. A down without out but not nearly the end. No final amen and a choir on high. I wont die.

“Colors stop coming! Where are your lines? Who stole the designs of this life?” A knife to the pages or better a torch. A threat in a flame. “Say my name. Say my proper name Words. I am good, though I’m sullied and not to be bullied and I know I know how to sing.”
Dirty face.
Dirty wings.
Dirty life dances in cold rain. Pleads for clean. And I spin and I spin and focus comes in for a moment, an instant and the tempos they match. Words line up as they hatch.
Exhausted.
I collapse. Still dirty. Now dizzy. But the bitter is sweet for my dirty feet.
Dirty feet washed little more clean.