pitch

 

i’m in the guest bedroom,

writing down all the hymns.

 

i’m guessing at some of the

words; welling up at others:

 

streams of mercy

never ceasing.

 

there’s a built-in happiness

in the notes, the chords;

 

the memory of fingers

flying over piano keys.

 

i am wooden wind chimes

in a metal world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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hush and hum

the poem is a

prayer

 

you write all alone

in your closet.

 

it fights

you;

 

it demands

a blessing

 

from the

shit.

 

inside time’s

attenuated tip,

 

you wrestle

with the

 

wooden chest

of your heart:

 

all the

kindling,

 

the hush

and hum,

 

the red

sharp,

 

the perfect

death.

 

deeper still,

you move

 

through the

electric blue

 

darkness, the

great lost-ness,

 

a tiny sign of life

hunting another.

 

you see the

silver sparks;

 

they brush up

against you—

 

but you cannot

feel them.

 

you are here

but not here.

 

you remember

your father saying

 

every thing is

going to be okay

 

with his ragged

breath and big

 

chemo eyes.

even then,

 

on the edge

of death,

 

he was full of

hills and hopes.

 

now, the

big banyan

 

and creeks and

deer and wolves

 

tell you: it is time

to move into your

 

own life. it is time

to stop inhabiting

 

family history,

family religion,

 

family memory.

put whiskey in

 

your coffee and go

out into the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

one who wrestles with god

the amygdala

says:

 

shuck off

your old self;

 

wrestle not with

en  joy  ment.

 

the cogent docent

of doctrine knows

 

not the enjambment

agonies of beinginlove;

 

the aqua-lung

jouissance-hung

 

doxologies rendered 

with each mercy-breath.