Saturday, March 26, 2016

the clocks broke

Holy Saturday

my son is chopping carrots
because in the depths of
crazy interfaith cross border
witchy lesbian hippie lands
slow cooked root vegetables
scream FESTAL more than
roast lamb

"i'm pretending Jesus isn't dead,"
a friend says
"i can't handle it. liturgically or actually."

my roman catholic property manager
along with his son
are out back
i watch him limping
slow across the gravel
as step by agonising step
he spring cleans in the yard

the sky is grey and uniform
inside, it's too cold to be warm
too warm to do anything about it

my kids are going to protest
the paving of their favourite beach
my sister hopes there will be bulldozers
she wants to chain herself to something

time is not moving
they didn't mention it in John but
when He breathed His last
the clocks broke

i've been sitting here,
kitchen table
cup of lukewarm tea
literally, forever

time is not moving.
how can it,
under the circumstances?

the breaker of chains
will free the hands of the clock
until then,
i will be sitting here 

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

venn diagram on desire (Holy Tuesday)

this is the bed:
burgundy sheets,
burnt orange pillows
heavy smoke
patchouli and cedar
and warmth

my hands
silk on skin
skin on skin

and i shake

press fingertips, here
arch back like so

lust comes in cliches
needs and waves
burning like so

the ache
and yearn

sighs on whimpers

this is the corner:
the cold floor
the small spot
between the wall
the sofa
the coffee table

my hands
comfort in the fistful
of my own shirt

and i shake

press my face to the cold
flat surface of the wall

comfort seems in small things
the physical
fending off hard

the ache of my chest
the pit in my stomach

tears and tears

Monday, March 21, 2016

Megale Deutera

look, love
your hand
slick with blood,
with mud and sweat

here we are,
the both of us together
deep in the hellish dark
fell voices swirl around us
in a stone sharp wind
and the cold is bone deep

but take my hand love
grip hard
find the traction of skin,
under the slime

and cleave to me
my love

for step by treacherous step
up the slipping stairs
wet with their blood rain
we will go

my hand in yours
yours in mine
and us in the dark

so we will ascend
bound together
by the strength of hands
the strength of hearts
the fear
of endless dark

step by
impossible step
we will ascend
until we see the light

together in a pale dusk
the near dawn

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Palm Sunday

it is early for rejoicing
2:41 in the morning
and the darkest hour
is always before dawn

outside my window
night moves
so fast as to be still
darkness carrying darkness

Palm Sunday
1:35 am 
i lay on the floor
the breath crushed out of me
i screamed

the agony was being alone
as though in a garden
but the end,
whatever end
was no where in sight

i swore once,
as lovers do
(i'll love you forever
only you
i'll never desert you)
and meant it
in my heart

imagine a man
kissing his beloved
and saying:
i love you forever
i'll never betray you

he meant that, too

we pile up broken promises
broken hearts
broken minds
a land fill trash heap tomb
and we are buried

darkness on darkness
on darkness

we cannot imagine day,
much less see it lighten in the east

but yet
Palm Sunday
1:53 am

i shave my head
dishonourably discharged
little gay sister of a buzz cut
and the hair floats down
like dust and pollen
on everything

number the grains of sand,
or the stars
and that's half the promises
i broke
half that you broke

we are a broken covenant people

but at 2:48 am
Palm Sunday
seven days
endless unknown hours

into one promise:
one tomb:
one dawn
invisible in the east
at 2:50 am
and yet so seen