The Greek Gods

Look: the trees are not themselves
today: the boughs / the needles /
the cons do not bend to slap me.
Cattails, in lake Como of seaweed:
of rainbowed fish and blue colour
that is not really blue. I know that.
The lake looks like that—that blue
thistle—because of the wavelength
of the reflecting light. It is not
because of the sky or the Greek
Gods who, in ancient times, drank
from chalices and—fed—cupped,
loosened to the earth the white
wine we know, have known,
all this time, as rain and more rain,
that water we drink from taps
the way bees drink nectar.
We have known and—have imagined.
How wrong we were.

Confessions of a Sinner

As with Pigeons, they Ignore us

What shall we do with the bodies,
all bleach all mud all smeared
in blood? Do we burn, lit aegis-like
their skin, so that black come,
ash come, and effluvium? Isn't
the fire too perceptible, a mark to
say: here, bind hard our hands?
If we wash only and throw their bodies
into water, would traces be traceable?
Traces always carves the same: the same hunt,
the same end: no trial and no listening to what
we say. As with pigeons, there's only ignorance.
Yes: our hands have killed and
killed. But here, in my palm, can you see
what I see: can you see that blood?
What we have done, we have suffered.



A Sinner

If you'd count syllables any day,
any day I'd count, name tiredly
the stars: Pegasus. Orion. Procyon
and Procyon: which have burned out and
have not? At Lake Como, I comb the grass
flat, as if in the starwatching Earth's hands
press me, my body, farther from that
cosmos I reach for, E.T-like, as for doves.
If I have grabbed a dove, felt that crushing
of limbs, have I sinned? If I made red the
palestrea ground, can I be forgiven? Yes, I have
killed, but any day these bleached hands
are like their faces. Can you take, rinse clean
my hands?



Your Servant

Here's a jello, and some pudding. Eat some.
Here's a light, making of my platter a mirror
of gold columns: signals, maybe, from
God. Does it mean he doesn't want us?
As swans, we keep coming back to what
we love with hunger and more hunger.
More to do with the human condition,
than with sin. It's only natural, like breathing
air is, or to fish: that sea, that salt
seaweed,etc. We regard it as privilege
to do what you do, have done, did, on earth.
If to savor for savoring is sin, give us a
sign, not like a threat but like a gift: is it
this light or this wind? I'm your servant:
What you want me to do, I'll do. You
can tell me anything.

Faith: like Brainwashing: God Poem

Here's a jello, and some pudding. Eat some. Here's a
light, making as of my platter
a mirror of gold columns: signals, maybe, from
God. Does it mean he doesn't want us?
As swans, we keep coming back
to what we love with greater hunger.
More to do with the human condition, than
with sin. It's only natural, like breathe
air is, or to fish: that sea, that salt
seaweed,etc. We regard it a privilege to
do what you do, have done, did on earth.
If to savor for savoring is sin, tell,
give here to us a sign: is the light or wind
that? I'm your servant: What you want me to
do, I'll do. You can tell me anything.

God: As with Pigeons, They Avoid Us

What shall we do with the bodies,
all bleach all mud all smeared
in blood? Do we burn, lit aegis-like
their skin, so that black come,
ash come, and effluvium? Isn't
the fire too perceptible? A mark
as to say: here, bind hard our hands?
If we wash only and throw their bodies
into water, would traces be traceable?
Traces leads to cops. Bad guys.
It's always the same: the same hunt,
the same end: no trial, no listening to what we say.
As with pigeons, there's only ignorance.
Yes: our hands have killed and killed.
But here, in my palm, can you see
what I see: can you see that blood?
What we have done, we have suffered.
Isn't that enough?

God: A Sinner

If you'd count syllables any day,
any day I'd count, name tiredly
the stars: Pegasus. Orion. Procyon
and Procyon: which have burned out
and have not? At lake Como, I comb
the grass flat, as if in the starwatching
Earth's hands press me, my body, farther
from that cosmos I reach for, E.T-like,
as for doves, for any bird whose soft feathers
begs to be patted. If I have grabbed
a dove, felt that crushing of limbs,
have I sinned? If I made red the palestra
ground, can you forgive me? Yes, I have
killed, but any day these bleached hands
are like their faces. I have suffered.
Can you clean my hands?