2008: The Body Celestial. The Trinity.

"even on darkest days
cathedral glass
transfigures and displays;
like wine at mass,
it renders pain as praise."
-Raymond Oliver

December 29, 2007

though i speak with the tongues of men
and of angels

the bars
hard snow
soft hands
let go
black ice
the night
soft prayer
eats hell
hot voice
knows well
no tears

i could see up her skirt, everything in
the patch on her tights,
the scars of her thighs,
the stars shoot past her eyes
chapter 13
under my breath
as i caught the young girl
on the way to her death
the year rapidly melted
flooded my head:
and have not Charity
i have become
as a sounding brass or a tinkling symbol
and though i have the gift of prophecy
and understand all mysteries
and all knowledge
and though i have all Faith
so that i could remove mountains

spanish rice,
simmers—
our hands uneven,
empty the cupboard
water boils, evaporates
preprocessed flavor,
simmers soft
on the stove
the kitchen
moves fast

our eyes watch
like light through a prism,
two bodies huddle
their radio close, they
stop and listen

somehow
we have evolved
to gods,

a minute later
the first mouth moves

“the rice is burning”
and have not Charity i am nothing
and though i bestow
all of my goods to feed the poor
and though i give my body to be burned
and have not Charity
it profiteth me nothing.
it's early spring
and my head is unwell
there’s my wolf up in heaven
and my human in hell
at the edge of a river
tall black shadows
short sharp guadrails
quiver like heat rays
a limitless blacktop
of shuddering water
the refraction of light
my inaction of fright
unfrozen heart trapped
in a cyto-mapped brain
her hand’s squeezing again
slowly driving me sane
i’ve thought about swimming
midnight on the willamette
and seeing how far I can make it
upstream.

Charity suffereth long and is kind,
Charity envieth not, Charity
vaunteth not itself is not puffed up
doth not behave itself unseemly,
seeketh not her own,
is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil.
terror.
last night, she said, was summer
midnight new york streets
clean white lingerie,
under streetlights,
tourist bus horns
bum love whistles
st. pius churchgoers
city sirens, car alarms
graffiti miles, strangers arms,
dark nipples bursting.

a story, she said, but i was already willing
to throw my arm hard,
pull her chest to my lips,
open and silent like new snow,
mouthing,

rejoceth not in iniquity
but rejoceth in the truth
beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things

i saw my reflection only once this year
her fear told me a story:
lady in a thunderstorm
feeling something kicking in her womb
black sky blood and a far away whisper
her own screams coming back too soon
keep moving always, a twitter of leaves
jump back, hold her heart in her chest
listen to the rats underground
attack her brain, she’s insane, sees dreams
in the silver they leave on her chin

cut out her frontal lobe with a switchblade
maced her eyes and got a tear
tore at her chest and got three more
bedroom, room where her bed is at
mother, girl who fed food and yelled at dad
to make her grow big
and strong and dying now, but on
the way back from confession
found the perfect thing
she should have said to the priest,
she remembers
the wheat that was her grandmother’s teeth
the fragile grin, sees dreams in her skin

tonight’s the night to begin
cleansing
again too soon, not ready,
God’s hands grow heavy
on her shoulder
holds her heart
and all she wants to say
is right now
her skin’s brighter than a morning
shines harder than the resurrection
purple frills glued against her skin
in the darkness of the raining night
is where she finds him
when the lightning flashes
and lights up the stars
they cried in my arms
Charity never faileth

but whether there be prophecies
they shall fail, whether there be tongues,
they shall cease,
whether there be knowledge
it shall vanish away,
for we know in part
and we prophesy in part
half mast
eyelashes glued
the fan moves
graying manes writhing
clenching snakes.
open window
paint chipping
children screaming
for their lives
in the plazas of athens
i remember

play fighting,
birch tree bayonets
in the midday courtyard,
mud dried in uneven battle scars.
stolen war patches
ugly on our sunday school vests.
straw hair, a heavy breeze;
we’ve dug hay bale trenches
made up our faces
with ketchup blood stains;
we’ve drawn lines in the dirt
and stand, face to face,
knowing in part our enemy
knowing in full our duty
to protect our choir house country
against the parking lot nation.
my grandfather’s frail hand
pulling the bell-rope
ten jagged times. “And Paul continued ‘
but when that which is perfect is come

then that which is in part
shall be done away.’”
winter wrapped us up in feathers
angelic cocoons high and higher in the sky falling.

when i was a child i spake as a child,
i understood as a child, i thought as a child
but when i became a man
i put away childish things
for now we see through a glass, darkly,
but then, face to face,
now i know in part
but then shall i know
even as also i am known

“you know,
the snow
the point
coarse ground
soft sky
last hope
first love
merge fast
the dove
white wings
blot sun
fresh flake
your throat
quick catch
one fleck
feels cold
melts fast
turns hot
meets blood
beats slow
first snow”
panes fogged
she’s close
head held
the warmth
breast soft
no need
no want
her lungs
breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
the lift
the fall
coarse ground
soft sky
the snow
heart slow
too fast
you know
and now abideth Faith, Hope, Charity,
these three
but the greatest of these is Charity.

December 16, 2008

and I emerged
the trinity
whispering
"God Bless"
breathless
weightless
"God Bless"