Posts Tagged ‘God’

A Plea for Relaxation

Posted: February 17, 1994 in Poetry
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People treat themselves like natural resources
(yes we are as part of the ecosystem —
we can be useful)
but expenditure like the burning of a ton of coal
to light one lightbulb?
I ask if this is necessary;
there is a chorus of affirmatives
from the millions who know no better,
who know nothing else,
who bought and will buy again,
who sell this idea.
Accomplishment is one great feeling,
but conversion of a ton of coal,
folding your diploma of success
into the paper airplane of your resumé,
forwarded into the next office,
the next buyer’s grabbing hands
leaves little room for meaning besides
fleeting appreciation and a closetful
of dusty awards that mean nothing.
A rusty mailbox doesn’t care if it rusts;
frogs don’t care where they croak from
or where they croak to,
or where they croak.
Life doesn’t seem to care
scientifically
where it is going.
But I disagree —
Something knows and always has known,
and it watches
and has its own opinion.
God is dead or at best
holds appointments on Sundays,
priests just do their jobs;
it is a profession: their work.
God or magick or belief
is no longer a requirement
for happiness or success.

I used to roll spare tires
down alleys in Point Loma
to see how many streets they’d cross
before stopping:
against a trash can or a moving car,
a cinderblock wall or a pile of dirt.
Stupid things is what I thought.
Why’d they stop there; it could have kept going
after that.
Steering.
I’m rolling and I steer myself short all of the time
and it’s coming; I can feel it singing and surging to life
in a tide, a god, an angel looking for a sharp sword
in his tongue,
fiery-eyed and furious,
smoking and snake-bitten.
But I can’t be touched by the fire I create –
burning myself won’t work anymore
– there is nothing left to burn but everything else
and it is to be smelted into my sword,
my pen, my tongue, my eyes,
my breath, my words,
my blood, my thoughts.

Untitled Poem #173

Posted: November 9, 1993 in Poetry
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sometimes I finger the scars on my heart
in the dark, all alone,
rough ribbons of hardened tissue;
they are braille lines of poetry;
railroad tracks to remind me of my innermost fears.

They feel almost skeletal,
and read like the scriptures of God,
and sting like the scorpions of God.

The Prince of Spring

Posted: May 31, 1993 in Poetry
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for all of my twenty years
I have had one healthy fear:
that Love will find me cold and dry
for being a Prince and held so high,
but my heart longs for fiery blood,
wide-open eyes and Love, true Love,
not courtships played to gain the hand
of the Princess with the tracts of land.
for Love that fountains from my soul
for the heart of a girl who’s honest, whole;
someone to Love me and someone to share
all of my fears with; someone to care.
for I am no better than any man.
a Prince or a Pauper, the same we stand
in God’s eyes you’re worthy or not,
it doesn’t matter, the gold you’ve got.
Love is life’s most precious thing,
even for me…
…the Prince of Spring!
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.

Interview With an Angel

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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no wings, no halo,
no beatific expression
of heavenly rapture.

on interviewing an Angel,
he scratched his head
and was most like any other man.

I’m five foot eleven,
one hundred and forty pounds
(give or take five for the season)
no, there’s no particular reason
I should be renowned
as an Angel from heaven.
by the way, I’m a Libra.

I just do the best that I can.
that is angelic.
I love and hate and fear,
I learn and hurt and feel.
but to the best of my ability,
with the tools God has given me;
other than that I’m just a man
struggling with the rest of my kin
to keep faith with the Angel within
and to dream.

I am still here;
encased in steel,
frozen in flesh;
I am still here.

the I, the me, and the one and only:
Michael, an Angel, this quality,
definitely the most beautiful man
regardless of position and opinion.

building and building my building,
my self: a tower of faith in feelings.
I’ve mortared each brick and laid each beam,
chosen the colors, welded the seams,
sweated past tears, made real my dreams.
I have constructed my cherished monster
and wobble like a weeble but I don’t
fall
down.
I doubt and I die
every day
sometimes I cry
and fade away,
but I’m always stuck with myself
so I’ve chosen to stick it out
until the morning after.

I’ve got to strip and scrub and look in the mirror
I get misunderstood and filthy bad-mouthing myself;
the more I scrub the more I bleed, feeling clearer –
addicting, this hurting and cleaning myself.

in that soulless mirror
is my only true friend
and he’s true as far as you believe him.
weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
I won’t scream anymore, I won’t make a sound
on finding my construction falling apart
snapping cables in the storms of my heart.

there is nothing that can ever take me away
I’ve done too much damage already.
twenty-one years old, a missile heaven-sent
and where god has thrown me I’ve made my own dent
to sit in and scowl or wave to my stars
as they streak by in the night, fireflies in jars.

The Dam-Builder

Posted: December 6, 1992 in Poetry
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the child:
he, long ago, was the dam-builder,
creator of landscapes in mud
and clay
with the courage to play
a God or an Emperor
to the hilt,
thinking plastic men had lives
to give and eyes
to see the wonders he had made,
the horrors of the floods
that would inundate
and kill
thousands of these men
buried under silt –
tons to them.