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

all the way down

it is easy to be humbled

when considering stars

the relative mass of life

bodies of knowledge

which hurl themselves

though the unknown

that which is not a given

proof positive that we

all of us

are very small

we play with the numbers

shoot arrows at inflated grotesques

hovering above the avenue

and still find no equation

which will successfully

approach infinity

from south hackensack

there was a brief moment

when it was all sorted

riding on a turtle’s back

while the stars spun endlessly

we flourished in ignorance

cuddling porcupines

killing prophets

eating everything

which crossed our path

truths not poisoned by

the latest stupidity

misbegotten realities

untouched by genius free

from van gogh madness

tesla dreaming insatiable

darwinian thirst certain

rather

that the turtle has left

and that we

are on our own

thorazine: the movie

i understand why people

cut themselves

(he hides his arms in garlands

strung with glittering nights

and coins from the continent

which sunk into the sea)

all that was left fit within a

crowded jar of precious things

one perfect stone and broken

shells a hornet’s nest long since

empty life moves constantly the

sun flower seeds created in excess

hoping to be more than what might

be consumed the casing burst open

the butterfly milk sent upon the

constant wind

(she sits on the swing facing sunset

alone watching him rock the subtle

effect of medication stealing the

light the flame the burning slips

behind mountains risen like christ

in third day chicanery extolling

salvation latter-day darkness to

devour the soul)

but you never met an outbound train

that you were impartial toward always

one eye on the red sign over the door

while tatting patterns in spider’s thread

without regard for their existence not

here not there ever in no space in no

time ruined by the virus implanted the

shrine of the martyr the inherent self

loathing masked in such beautiful turns

of phrase

(it is said that the walls of jericho had

crumbled some seven centuries prior

to the arrival of the horn section the

desert quiet swallowing the truth whole

bleached bones rising as the winds

blow the sands shift to the casual eye

nothing changes until the rains come

and color reborn dances upon the

wicked and sanctified at once she

folds hands upon creases and allows

the goddess to take the water and

leave the salt to stain her face her

shoulder her breasts the soft red

linen colorless in the absence of light

may as well be black)

stroke-fest

Lanyards woven by delicate fingers

Used to cut off the supply of oxygen

Our brains soften first sometimes after death

Often before dinner with friends who consider

Attractive minds misunderstood mistaken for infirmity

The benediction of over active synapses firing the servants

Your noise is beautiful they say when I dream

At the table other stories are revealed when

Stirling silver domes are lifted and the gestures

Poached contempt and nervous laughter

Litter the finery the proud faces slick with fat

Bits of flesh caught mid smirk in dull teeth

Dull eyes dull wit clinging to the hope the need

For the help to come and clear this mess

Bring sweet truffles and carved melons

Before you start to burn

And the cloth and curtains

Consumed in maddened sunsets

Wake them from insincerity

Return them to the power

Held in revolving credit

 

regarding doctor williams

given enough time
anything
might mature into
a seven hundred pound
gorilla
sitting ineffably
where ever
it
might choose
eating all the plums
without so much
as leaving a note

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)

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

el diván de los malditos

the delta

as i perceive the view

is awash with more ignorance

crowded into the most minute

of fish bowls

(rae leans back and fidgets

with his phone broken screen

and all home for friday night

quiet the rain starts)

but what was the moment

the fat greek in the bathtub

moment the i finally see a

possible fit in the jigsaw sky

of endless blue and storm

clouds moment when you

got the joke and were the

only one laughing

(he brings his new bicycle

through the living room

out of the elements a

futile gesture of love which

makes the woman smile)

i get all present tense

when i consider it the trip home

from the desert the vision of the

world and all its riches laying at

my feet the temptation to jump

and the tendrils confusing the

experiment measuring absolute

solids and keeping track of the

flight path of every honey bee

it gets to be too much

(he sits back down with his

mason jar and she is reminded

of toronto as well as being

mistaken for furniture by the

cats rae laughs wondering if

she will ever answer the question

or dance endlessly at the edge

of the couch)

but there was a morning after a

night before when i woke to an

image in the vanity mirror and

clearly understood that i was

indomitably me and that i exist

within an environment of flux

a universe of expansion and

moments which compress us

until our mass becomes too great

too huge and there is no choice

as to when we explode

(rae shakes his head then nods

knowing many choices to be

little more than believing the

rabbit was never in the hat before

the wave of the wand the woman

laughs and gets them two more

brown bottles to add to the table

returning to a place she feels safe)

so i never had a eureka moment

so much as i had a moment of

surrender a moment when i felt

the stardust in me and understood

that my place wasn’t to understand

or even to choose but rather to

acquiesce lay down my sword

and allow myself to be

(she passes him the lighter and they

toast the purchase of the new bike

the sturdy welds and well placed

controllers and her safety she laughs

at the irony in spite of the magnesium

frame and the trophies from several

championship basketball teams she

moves her hand close to his)

and most importantly i have seen

the value in speaking to the dead

rae

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