My Beautiful Weird, Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,

–we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower

–we are there.

Read sci-fi, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm

–and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman’s womb,

silent-now toys, and night in a child’s room:

we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still

he conducts and connects word and thought,

rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today

to yesterday’s final answer.

We are the revelation and the salvation for the

unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.

We are each other, and each other’s savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom

and the all-father. We are

brother night and mother morning–

sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or

tomrrow, we find it only in the love in

the spaces between the spaces between us.


My Beautiful Bent, Weird Revolution

I’m tired of things only meaning one or two things.

I’m in love with orthogonality:

one becomes five becomes ten-thousand

becomes purple, becomes God.

I have reenlisted in the Poet Core

to serve on this, a top secret mission–

which, as poetry, means I tell

everyone who reads or hears this poem:

the secret of the Bent Christ Cross,

the 24th letter of the English language–orthogonal T–

Sacred, bent “t”–the letter X.

Love letter, Leadbelly, where were written your poems

last night?

In the pines? In the palm trees?

In Red-orange embers?

In pale-blue sky?

Somewhere between the Holy Trinity, the letter “X”

and Hiroshima–

somewhere lost among shoreline palms

and midnight psalms, whispered, whispered and

if you listen very hard

the words will come to you at last:

this Declaration of my Beautiful and Bent

Weird Revolution.

A Prayer For My Son

A Prayer For My Son

Since Harry Potter wasn’t the only young man forced

to summon his own Patronis all alone,

and since, still living, I’d never abandon my son,

to cast alone that spell I, too, can summon,

I write this poem now as a prayer for you.

May your should always be the perfect place

to cry, laugh, or sigh upon,

and may the twinkle across your eyes always bewitch

the eyes you deepest desire to set ablaze;

may your lovers find that missing you

stings far harder than forgiving you;

may you never forget that some kinds of jealousy

are just the sincerest sign of falling in love.

Never notice with alarm those too timid to bring

their full fascination with you out into the open,

and never rue a friend you realize laces or chases

unyielding admiration with occasional spite.

Never doubt those who trust you, somehow,

ever more than you doubt yourself,

and always allow those who worst broke your heart

at least one chance to try to mend it.

Know that, as my son, those you cradle within your arms

–in your conjugal bed–

will never find a safer or more sure sensuality;

remember too, as my son, that those you swore forgot you

must be the worst heartbroken, if having lost you,

you remember them still.

Understand that sons and daughters

listen ever more loudly than lovers, and they

remember true the purpose behind your lies–

see that those who raise up your children

are the true Mad Royalty of civilizations–

they insist on empires run for men like you and me.

May the depth of your forgiveness run as deep as

your best arrows of indignation fly far;

may you always find a joke or toast or poem

to reassure any timid, wayward on you find you found

–somehow–as you travel on your way through time.

Amen, my son, amen.