but it’s no good,
the secret out,
and I am on my knees.
what I say is holy,
holier than the tomes of great men
whose bodies are dust;
I can no longer blow them for good graces
except by exhale,
head buried to the lap
of dead gods turned to ash.
November 11, 2012
From ‘hands on the hips’
Meditation on the death of a soldier
life ended abruptly by the
bullet of another’s weapon
paid for by a master neither
one of you has ever met
weapon that was cleaned
with as much care as yours
and placed firmly in hand by
another country such as yours
and without thought, fired to
bring ends to ideals and have
certain glory from gods or God
fired a bullet that ended it’s
own journey in your body
your body, which lies there
weapon in hand that surely would
have ended the bullets owner
if given the chance
this is the death that you have chosen
as if picked out from a catalogue
listed under ‘means of dispatch’
and you nation mourns forgetting
your choice
never blaming the decisions
that placed you there
yours and your masters
but I am colder and I cheer
not at your death but
at the end you were able to choose
for yourself
I am not so lucky and
I will die unknowing from where
the bullets came
March 11, 2012
a poem
This is intended to be read aloud – read quietly to your self and you may miss the point.
I am Lazarus
walking from the car
to the doctors office,
I am Lazarus.
sick, shaking, agitated,
waking up everyday,
I am Lazarus.
call for me at the window!
I’ll let down my holy beard,
read you a turn, a strophe,
carefully with open eyes.
look at my walk!
how I limp, sadly moving,
my feet crash to the ground!
Look at my chest, how it breathes
how my heart beats!
look at my eyes, they see,
emote, tell!
see you listening,
see you reading, see you
who have not died,
who are not blessed to live long.
pain! strife! peace! war!
goddess Aphroditie!
god Ares!
I am Lazarus! I know you!
death,
I’m addressing you.
I have died already,
you have already taken my spirit, soul;
I will not fear you any longer.
life,
I have already gone past you,
crossed to the other shore,
I shall not fear you any longer.
I am Lazarus!
call for me at my door!
there we’ll meet,
lock gaze and I’ll sing! dance!
Laugh! with butterflies in my beard.
hummingbirds at my ears.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 