Redemption at Track 34
the pages of Michael’s bible
were rice-paper thin, thin as the skin
of Jesus in a Milwaukee rest home with red
and blue lines varicosed throughout,
marking the quotes of the apocalypse
and the holy Mother Bride redeemer, the one
who will save my soul, says Michael
Christian brides and ablution
never did this philistine any damn good
never did smell of hope and eternity
and neither do thin-paged bibles
or swift yearning words of heaven
everlasting, the gifts of a wrathful God
hell-bent on total destruction, save for those
who wander train station platforms
in Grand Central, pulling bibles from
their pokes and begging for donations
the last call for the train to Poughkeepsie
sends Michael’s heart into a tizzy, sends him
spiraling through Luke and Mark and John
at such a pace that even he forgets to believe,
and Michael, he knows he didn’t save me
and I knew he never could…they say the first
step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem
but I’ve never had a problem with where I was
headed, just wondered whether it was a dry heat
or full on Mississippi swamp humid
Michael shakes hands and surrenders
to the truth, turns and walks toward the main
concourse, a kind enough fellow, just
hoping for his wings, and maybe he was heading
back to his bible study group on fifth avenue,
or back to a padded cell, or to a millionaire’s
loft, though it doesn’t really matter where the hell
Michael was going, so long as he gets there
and I catch the midnight run to Poughkeepsie
speed dating
“I think I find you interesting,” she said,
“but all you seem to do is write, or think
about writing, or reading, or stuff like that;
if you take all that writing away, are you
still interesting? That’s what I wonder…”
“I am dull—with,” I said, “or without it.”
she laughed, thinking
it was adorable, or something;
it was all a joke to her
as the ice melted in the drinks
between us
but it scared the shit out of me
because it was true
The long county
it has been a long county since I could think
with tools deeper and more expansive than one
foot in front of the other through the corn rows
and gnarled stalks that trip my thinning sole
questions of silence and existence drop like stars
and beg to form words and whispers from lips I
don’t own anymore out here in the darkness where
the dried rustle of leaves interrupts my heartbeat
my every intellect has shorn itself one idle thought
after another like the bottoms of my shoes against
these dry runnels, reduced to simple midnight nothings
crumbling to pieces like the distant memories behind me
Wilting flowers at night
someday
when you lean
across
the table and tell
me how
you love me again
it won’t be a nightmare
but a well worn
dream
Stop calling me after midnight
when people call and you tell them
you are ankle deep
in bottle caps
they think you’re joking
which is why
talking to people is like walking
barefoot
some of the time
or at least walking with only socks
most of the time
ankle deep in bottle caps
the pages of Michael’s bible
were rice-paper thin, thin as the skin
of Jesus in a Milwaukee rest home with red
and blue lines varicosed throughout,
marking the quotes of the apocalypse
and the holy Mother Bride redeemer, the one
who will save my soul, says Michael
Christian brides and ablution
never did this philistine any damn good
never did smell of hope and eternity
and neither do thin-paged bibles
or swift yearning words of heaven
everlasting, the gifts of a wrathful God
hell-bent on total destruction, save for those
who wander train station platforms
in Grand Central, pulling bibles from
their pokes and begging for donations
the last call for the train to Poughkeepsie
sends Michael’s heart into a tizzy, sends him
spiraling through Luke and Mark and John
at such a pace that even he forgets to believe,
and Michael, he knows he didn’t save me
and I knew he never could…they say the first
step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem
but I’ve never had a problem with where I was
headed, just wondered whether it was a dry heat
or full on Mississippi swamp humid
Michael shakes hands and surrenders
to the truth, turns and walks toward the main
concourse, a kind enough fellow, just
hoping for his wings, and maybe he was heading
back to his bible study group on fifth avenue,
or back to a padded cell, or to a millionaire’s
loft, though it doesn’t really matter where the hell
Michael was going, so long as he gets there
and I catch the midnight run to Poughkeepsie
speed dating
“I think I find you interesting,” she said,
“but all you seem to do is write, or think
about writing, or reading, or stuff like that;
if you take all that writing away, are you
still interesting? That’s what I wonder…”
“I am dull—with,” I said, “or without it.”
she laughed, thinking
it was adorable, or something;
it was all a joke to her
as the ice melted in the drinks
between us
but it scared the shit out of me
because it was true
The long county
it has been a long county since I could think
with tools deeper and more expansive than one
foot in front of the other through the corn rows
and gnarled stalks that trip my thinning sole
questions of silence and existence drop like stars
and beg to form words and whispers from lips I
don’t own anymore out here in the darkness where
the dried rustle of leaves interrupts my heartbeat
my every intellect has shorn itself one idle thought
after another like the bottoms of my shoes against
these dry runnels, reduced to simple midnight nothings
crumbling to pieces like the distant memories behind me
Wilting flowers at night
someday
when you lean
across
the table and tell
me how
you love me again
it won’t be a nightmare
but a well worn
dream
Stop calling me after midnight
when people call and you tell them
you are ankle deep
in bottle caps
they think you’re joking
which is why
talking to people is like walking
barefoot
some of the time
or at least walking with only socks
most of the time
ankle deep in bottle caps
