............................................. (christ of the abyss).......................................



i.
one foot in the present, the other in the future
water skis our parents fastened to us when were kids
our parents: we were so convinced their archibodies
steered the sailboat which became a speedboat
with an optional captain that rips us through the waters.

some of us choose air over water and woe to those of us
who’ve been bit by the vampire of travel,
we undead, insensitive, self-centered folks
who ward-off coming down from the heroin of experience
grandmothers on willed deathbeds take our problem personally.
the problem: air doesn’t hold-up skis and the future flies away

half our body with it, sailing over the vibrant panorama
the other half condemned to chase that black sliver and pile of flesh
just out of reach then just out of sight, racing into the bright abyss.

ii.
when jesus shunned his mother, she turned around and slumped home
and baked a cake for her other sons to devour after dinner.
don’t take him personally, ma, said james who was less troublesome;
james never multiplied stocks of wedding booze to the delight of winos
or let prostitutes waste perfume on his feet in the homes of public officials
and james left the dead men and children alone, to everyone’s lack of confusion.

that nice angel neglected to mention that the savior of the world
would ignore family values. everyone knows the family comes first
except jesus, who always forgot to wash his hands before supper.
mothers want quiet sons from normal pregnancies in comfortable surroundings
mothers want sons who remember to call home once in a while
mothers want grandchildren.

iii.
home is not place, a face, or feeling
but an interactive photo album
of images and smells before sounds
sloppily stapled to emotional response.

the white bedroom walls covered
in remnants of scotch tape
which once held quotes
don’t you see i just want my life
to be something more than long?
from less popular musicals
or green-brown judy garland
and a flawless terrier in a basket.

mouth running as defense
from supper table silence, god and man at table
are sat down, says the sepia wall hanging
that hides the fuse box.
god’s the only one listening to those plans.

frost coating the gray city
and damp overpasses where someone
spray painted romance in unreachable places.
how did they get up there. will we ever know.

the first pictures, faded polaroids
taken before the future breathed into
cameras; that runny past, now red
and dulled by sunlight. who forgot to tell us
blurred is not enough, but blurred is all we'd have.

(lhl)