when the wine is all gone (an atheist’s prayer)

i wish there were a god

who would take responsibility

for all the shenanigans

instead of just the wonder

i wish their were angels

fighting a heavenly battle

keeping the forces of evil

far from my peaceful slumbers

i wish there was a heaven

where we all could meet again

all the faces i have loved

drink tall drinks and dance

i wish there was a hell

with demons i could blame

when i transgressed

hurting those most close

yet i remain grateful

for the light of this day

reflecting off of the tree

outside my window

grateful to witness

flowers which bloom and die

my connection to ants

which crawl across toes

full moons and half moons

floating upon celestial oceans

the stars which fall

and those that stay

i am grateful for all that i know

the unanswered questions

best left ’til tomorrow

when the wine is all gone

story telling as a high art form

well before words of love

were all redacted

she laid her head upon my lap

hair stroking wishing upon stars

with the edge of her spectacles

gently cutting into my thigh

tell me again how it was

without looking i could feel her smile

the pressure of her cheek contracting

the film but a flickering light jools and

jim dancing to juke box music while

her flesh transformed to velvet damp

in august swelter my fingers began

to tremble

we were last row sitting tiffany sun

streaming through the 18th century

stained glass memories of a crumbling

church we would walk hand in hand

above all their dead traversing the

generations of believers whose

faith we could not share just

for the light the window the songs

so sweet we looked at pictures on

my phone faces wet with lust the

satisfied smiles and deep glow of

engorged flesh skin exposed chafing

at the air of a faithful moon blaring

above the din of bowlers on to the

next phase of their own saturday

night sanctuaries chests heaving

craving each others breath to be

mixed attempting subtle kisses

amidst the futility of time’s passage

her hand was lost between inside

the slight quiver the muscles in

her shoulder slightly shifting

supple motion to match the change

in the rise and fall the warm wet

against my leg her mouth open

as worlds began to collide i asked

her if i could help she clawed for

her voice through closed eyes

no

just keep talking

death

it is said

that after passing

hair and fingernails

continue to grow

phone calls

however

taper off

leaving a silence

not unlike

the song i heard

when i had placed

my ear

to your chest

damocles’ ceiling fan

i have a ceiling fan

which i never have

turned off i believe

it to be the lynchpin

for this reality of

time and space

(there are little rifts about

the place seams come

undone corsets after the

closing time arias are

sung

she admires

certain cracks

more than others mostly

measured by their ingenuity

mimicking faces of

saints and other

historical figures)

i slept directly under it for

a whole summer daring it

to fall

but clearly that never happened

although one night

i heard the neighbors fucking

in the back of

his blue pick up truck

and i guess

that counts for something

(she has determined that

lemon drops

the ones dusted

lightly with corn starch

the ones her father’s

mother liked so much

are truly wonderful)

but i won’t shut it off

either way

just in case it is more

than just

a silly feeling

i may not believe in god but i have seen dogs smile

you wield sorrow

like a cudgel

it makes me feel safe

(she sips her tea and

considers all of the hats

which clamor for attention

sitting in an alienated garret

with a view of nothing more

nothing less)

so very russian which

alone

can be frightening

but i have a continent

to protect me

although i find no

other use

for middle america

(prague weighs heavily

in her front pocket

the chaffing an old friend

whose welcome worn thin

insists upon being)

it is a flavor of sadness

without a hint of defeat

and i enjoy that

as much

as it troubles me

(the other burns

flowers

in pursuit of her

desire

to eliminate

desire)

tapestry

i see each thread as they cross

the color of joy and anger run

back upon sorrow and mirth

until the tapestry is hung several

hundred years before i was even

a thought the beast pierced and

beaten raging against the inevitable

capture circled by the intentions

of men and the slack-jawed

swarming about the splendid

curiosity

(the echo off of the walls the

stone floor absolute marking

each heel in concrete terms

she stands amid the din the

laughter of the children hands

pointing at the blood on as it

flows from the side exhausted

she falters slightly and places

her hand just below her throat)

so primitive yet so alive the hand

of the weaver still moving passing

the shuttle to and fro immortalizing

the terror in the eyes the torn flesh

the horn bowed in defeat as death

becomes a reality even now in its

faded state safe from everything

except the gazes we add to the

picture with our own lust our desire

to possess beauty

(there is a hint of a cologne she

recalls and dismisses as olfactory

hallucinations are precedent for

further disturbance the fire-place

behind her long cold and chairs

upon which she once sat are

guarded roped off from the

people eating dreams from

small plastic bags which make

crackling sounds resounding

the call of the hunt)

ocean

put a splash of yellow on anything

immediately

will to live is supposed

but i much rather remain

right here imagining

sun upon my skin

my shoulders my back

my legs push my feet into

sand warm

uncovering the smallest shell

a soul conceived in deep

blue which colors it all

atmospherically glowing

preposterous skies knowing

everything gets dark

dumpster lid closing

feet now in motion

away from the ocean

which i alone perceive

all which has gathered

between toes and glances

back toward sodom the

land of the dead

(the coffee is strong enough

to kill she closes her eyes

allows the heavy steam to

rise filling senses long-lost

in the last war of angels)

i approach sincerity with a stick

unsure of vital signs deliberately

losing keys and their meaning

the improbability of safe harbor

the inevitability of paying the

devil his portion and look just

fabulous doing it

(there is a necklace she can’t

throw away worn to the bit of

bone upon which the glyphs

were painted it hangs with

a string of pearls from the

agean which began as an

irritation)

i close my eyes

i possess

all of the kingdoms

and riches

of the world

the crystal palace

the golden throne

the water the

salt

what i lack is temptation

the invitation to sin

the nights spent in perdition

watching storms roll in

over a delinquent sea

(she stops herself cold and

cracks her neck and fingers

one by one slowly the sound

comforting release

become kinetic for

an eighth)

sunday afternoon luncheon dates should be safe

i have eaten a

mountain of mangoes

many of them naked in

the company of the most

delicious minds i have ever

(she laughs considering

relics from the dark ages

the silver and gold so well

staged so precise in an era

madly undefined by reason)

there is something about the

mess the sweet sticky that

continues to bind people long

after we lather rinse repeat our

way into the next cloud of fruit

flies indecision waking nightmares

all bearing resemblance to whatever

mythical beast you would rather have

torment your living soul

(eyes roll while jesus wept she

just didn’t have the energy for

martyrdom the absolution the

quest for the final movement

of an unfinished symphony no

one ever wanted to hear)

the sweet lingers

(the sun has shifted enough for

her to remove her sunglasses

over-sized tortoise-shell cover

revealing herself to him clearly

understated but far from the

ingénue pictured on milk cartons

coast to coast)

and it can be a tonic the

transitional plasma between

phases the way the light changes

creating pockets of gold in which

we might shine tasting it again

before it runs down our throats

down deep inside where it never

leaves where it just glows patiently

waiting for an instant in which we

might need nourishment

(she takes his fork and stabs

a soft fleshy wedge defiantly

offering him the succulent slice

impaled upon the tines of the

generic eatery flatware)

go ahead

(she locks eyes)

you first

peggy lee

and the list is endless

you know and i try to care

about the differences between

cling peaches canned in georgia

and anyfuckingwhere else but limits

are good limits are good especially

when living on such a small planet

(her little sister pushes the cart

weighed down with every imaginable

indelicacy many grown right here in

the good old)

for some reason i always want to buy

ham and more than a reasonable amount

and that desire heightens around the holy

days and nights we lose ourselves inside

within the mundane when we crave the

ethereal the concept of sitting on the edge

cradled tenderly in a silver lining humming

songs that we were too busy to stop and

learn properly

(the young woman is marginally aware

of the elder’s eccentricity and the other

shoppers some staring others filming

glad to finally have something to post

on-line which did not involve a cat)

it’s the music you know the music

is what proves what fuzzy headed

albert couldn’t while we go on inventing

dimensions to mathematically figure it

all to the decimal to the smallest of

tiddles no one thought for an instant

to throw back their heads and sing

(she grabs a rather slight man in a

cardigan sweater and begins to

dance with him leading him around

an open section near a display of

dolphin friendly tuna)

is that all there is

is that all there is

is that all there is

to life

my friend

then lets keep dancing

( the younger grabs her by the

arm and drags her away from

the little man toward the front

door)

let’s break out the booze

and have a ball

if that’s all

(the door closes the two on

the street laughing she fixes

her lipstick and takes the younger

by the arm)

what about your groceries

(she laughs)

 

 

 

excerpt from ‘is that all there is’  written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller

the earth is passing through the tale of a comet and all i got was this t-shirt

i have never explored

the edge of space nor

have i ever jumped from

a perfectly fine aircraft

when i fell from grace i

had no parachute no holy

hang glider no explanation

for waking up in a double

wide near bath pennsylvania

drooling on the copy of nine

stories i used to carry

(she chuckles under her breath

considering the descent in her

black sundress the one with the

white geometric print and sequins

silver sequins)

but i have experienced rarefied air

the deep dryness beyond reason

and still remain perched with a view

of babylon across the water waiting

for the penitent to confess a new

litany of sin always a light waiting

at the perfect angle for the right

moment to engage to explode

as a small wave rises to its touch

kissing it full on the mouth taking

the rest of the oxygen to one corner

of earth

(she accepts the fact that her

hand is being held and her words are

being heard against this backdrop the

din of one million dying stars and the

millions of accompanying planets some

of which must have intelligent life just

blinking out of existence just like that

poof)

maybe it would cluster someplace nice

madagascar maybe madrid though i was

always fond of barcelona especially during

springtime but anyplace is good to be

when the ground thaws when the snow

melts when the rains come and oh they

come yet not enough to erase that one

memory the shining moment the universe

decided to point out exactly how wrong a

soul could be

(she withdraws her hand to wrap her

excuse of a sweater more tightly

thus removing her a little bit from the

moment while she feels the arm slip

around her shoulder drawing her to

the warmth of the body)

you are brave

(she makes a point of gazing off into

and not making eye contact)

and i would commend you were you

not damned