Sunday 17 January 2016

On the Passing of CD Wright

For JL and Georgia

The poets are all dying
Or perhaps
We only notice them when they are old
It seems the greats are all gone,
We pretenders scratch in the dirt,
Hanging our heads,
Trying to muster up the ego to
Put down the words,
To pretend that poetry still matters,
And then, to edit,
To put on the mask, the forgotten art,
Chasing the lightning

That we once felt at our fingertips.

We too are growing old,
The ink spinning out of the plasma
From a tube in the arm
But death is always with us.
How much ink is left?

Altar love.
Bone love.
Grave love.
Thorn love.
After love.
Altar love.
After( )light.
"Pass with care."

Sunday 3 January 2016

An Honest Liturgy for the Americas

Our father
Who art desire
Holy are my feelings
Let them be fulfilled
Let me have my way
Even if it takes taking out a little credit
Fudging edges or burning some bridges

Lead me not into frustration
But deliver me from guilt
For Thine is the pleasure
And the climax
And the salve
And the earplug
Forever and ever

Amen.