civilization 1997

7/29/2019 Civilization 1997

1/97

ON WHATTHE FUTURE

OF CIVILIZATION DEPENDS


2/97

ON WHATTHE FUTURE

OF CIVILIZATION DEPENDS

by

Bruce Curley(c) retained

Bruce Curley4210 Candice Drive

Mount Airy, MD [email protected]

2
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


3/97

The Return

The land beacons

with fruit and wheatand wildlife abundant,so I crawl from the sea,seaweed draped and brinepermeated to the shoreline.

And I am one now,my mother and familyare close by laughingand the waves beattheir eternal rhythmsoftly,faintly familiar but forgottenbecause there is so muchbetween now and the return.

The football flies high abovethe waves, drops back,drops to a friend now laughingby the waves until it landsby a girl Ive been watchingfor hours who reciprocateswith a hair toss and shy smile,and the din of the oceanis silent for some years.For a time, there is so much

to be done on dry land.

One day my own babyis on my shouldersfrightened by the wavesand their ultimate calling.I laugh at him, of course,confident after so many yearswith the sea and its waves

that Ive mastered them,felt their power and captured it,taken it on and rechannelled itto a life beyond these shores.

The land that beaconedso many years agokept its promise.It gave me the meansto support a growing family.Good and sweet

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4/97

foodstuffs abundant.Clean, clear water,(even in cities) and shelterfrom all but the fiercest stormsthat claimed many far awaybut left us safe and dry

at higher land elevations.

Now...this wheel chairand these grandchildrenand great grandchildren.If I could only tell themof that journey from the seaand all the lands between,the seascape and landscapeand each is so dependenton the other for life.Of how the shorelineis the alter upon whichthe inner life should knowhow tenacious and beautifuland brief this life on dry landlooks when the sea beaconslike the oceans waves, at this end.

They show me the babyand I hope I can recognize him.I wish my body still answeredmy thoughts, but we both knowit can never be so again.

I hear the waves clearly, though.Through it all, the years and cities,wars and the news media drumbeatinto my head, all spread before meas on a screen, I still hear the waves.My family looks at me with suchconcern and pity, but it is not the timeor place for pity. I hear the waveson the shore...WWOOOOOSHSHSH...WWOOOOOOSHSH...WOOSHSH...

I hear their tenderand light-filled call,and I surrender...I surrender.From the timeI crawled from the seatheyve been callingme to them again.And the voicethat has always spokeninside me even when

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5/97

I failed to listen, saysto me so clearly,No more crawling inland......it is time to answerthe seas call..it is time to return

and I listen.

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6/97

The Splendid Routine

It is in the routines life is mastered,not the spectacular or heady.It is the sandwich made againand again to the same perfection,that feeds the millions;The 2 x 4 placed in the same position

as a thousand times beforethat builds the house for millions;the prayer prayed with humble precisionthat reaches the ear of God.So, despite the media feeding frenzy,the 15 minutes of fame, the opening nightglory, the awarders giving each other awardsin Hollywoods special desperation,or the worship of the crowd in the standsat the sports cathedrals ritual of disciplineand moxy granting blessing and benediction,

Remember this:the same crowd that worshipsin the stands has a cadre nearbyfashioning the crown of thorns,.and preparing the cross and nailsIt is in the routine task done wellfamily life rewards and the world ignoresthat generations continue; leave themere heady moments to the world.

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7/97

St. Francis Bedside Lament

But Francis looked on with increasing anguishat what he saw as a harsh and legalistic

metamorphosis of his lifes dream.In his Testament, written shortlybefore his death in 1226, heuttered a wistful protest and triedto call the order back to his lovely Lady Poverty.

A Concise History of the Catholic ChurchThomas Bokenkotter, 1979, p. 160

I lifted swords with these hands once,fought worldly military campaigns and rebuilt churchesstone by stone when God called me to His sideby speaking my name so many times

it drove me insane with flight until I returned,returned to His breath of life and His watersatiated my thirst, his bread fed my spiritual hunger,and my stomach, contracted from fast, could not hold downHis holy and precious wine. I took his strength, sowed itin fields and towns and villages and cities all over Italy.He gave me miracles when I did not ask for them,spoke to me through birds and animals as clearlyas you would hear the voice of your own father.But now the wily Pope Honorius and his enforcer,Cardinal Ugolini, take it all from me on my deathbed.I, who know well the mind of God in a way thatdrives one crazy or drives one to his lovely wounds,

Am baffled, continuously and to my very deathbed,by the mind of man and its perpetual machinations.They invalidate this very Testament by desecrating my temple,Lady Poverty, my only comfort, as I see my Creators faceeven more lovely than I have known it in this life,in this stigmatas joy, this poverty that now allowsme to so easily leave this metaphysical worldfor the Spirit Who now whispers such sweet love,such sweet love. ---- Honorius, Ugolino,you can ignore me and make my order worldly,but not this sweet, sweet Love....this sweet, sweet Love....

this sweet....this....

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8/97

Backyard Quiet Salvation

This is the quiet of the backyard:The roses roots dormant in winter,

The split oak logs ready to providecomfort and warmth promise of lifethrough the next and the next deep freeze;

The fence high enough to deter intruders,but low enough to allow the seamless bondsof the domestic nature inside the gardento commune with the wild nature outside;

The gate double latched and lockedagainst criminals bent on violatingthis homes domestic tranquillity;

The birds abundant at feeding timetribute to my mothers admonition:"Feed the birds and you never go hungry"the reason the bird feeder is always fulleven in the worst weather,the birds that force us to leave the mundaneto consider the heavensalways to be treated with extra care and time.

And this baby in my armswho startles me everyday day with the thought:"Where did he come from?!"

Oh, I know the biological explanations,but they are never sufficientto answer such a mysterious question.

This baby,whose everyday existenceis poetry and the core reason for poetry;who supersedes all the academicand ego reasons, this life,this beautiful head and soft new hair,these eyes that can make me cry outfrom depths that are subterranean cavitiesthat lay fallow until he was bornbut which now produce love enoughfor him and some extra for street orphansand incompetents, this small bodywhose strength is already more potentthan my once formidable athletic prowess,this form in my armsthat sleeps in backyard quiet,

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9/97

isolated from the worlds crime and crueltywho reminds me so discretelythat backyard quiet makes the poetryof the front yard performancepossible and necessary and good:

this life in my armsis proof of the unbroken chainof life that leads us back to Adamand the Original Sin and the promiseof eventual quiet backyard salvation.

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10/97

Old American Ways(A Valentine)

"Wheres the gravy!?"she said in a voicethat let me knowit was no metaphor.

"I threw it outwhen I did the dishes!"I shot back,confident my helparound the kitchenwould cover for anysmall mistakes.

"You threw it out!?"she answered as quickly."But that was Eamons food!The gravy is the mostnourishing part!"

"So make him other food.I dont think at 9-months oldwere particularly discriminating."

She was not to be mollified.

"LOOK! Dont everthrow out the gravy again! NEVER!And dont ever do the dishesif youre going to throwout the gravy! I thrownothing out, NOTHING!I use everything. GOT IT!"

This was from the womanwhos mother, I noticedwhen I had just taken Eamonto the doctor, had sewnhis shirt with thick, shiny dental floss.The very reflection from the brightlights in the doctors office assuredthat the doctor noticed it, too.In the area we live, such signscan be read as child neglect

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11/97

and, given the right bureaucrator judge, outright child abuse.

"Dont you EVERthrow the gravy out again!Do you understand me?!

Its the most nourishing part."

Properly chastised,I remembered againwhy I had wanted to marrya woman from an orchard familyso many years and children ago,and why I still loved this one so.

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12/97

The Need for Saturday Poetry

There are those who write Friday night poems,manic, frantic poems of word grenadesthat are thrown in your face

fiercely and emotionallywith no thought to consequence,restraint, or the future."It is here, man,it is in your face and your mamma's faceand dig it, I don't give a[choose your favorite curse word]see, man, it is MY poem,MY poem that matters,and only I matterin this world's creation, man,understan' what I'm sayin..."and the poet leaves the stage and spotlightto screams and high fivesand another shot and beeras institutional as the poem was not.

There are those who write Sunday afternoon poetry,wonders of iambic pentameter and tetrarchand word constructions so dense and thickthat the early settlers to America,had they faced the same forest of words,never would have made it pastthe white sands of the Eastern Seaboard;great pedantic wonders of words on page

and now on the Internet's wall beckoningbut leaving and soul as cheated and emptyas stomachs fed on grass in a famine;these poetry Pharisees and Seducesleave the lectern and seminarto the abject loneliness of he deskwith no window and soldier on,cursing their superior's orderswhile religiously obeying them.

Others write Saturday poetry,work and art poetry,poetry that takesthe everyday and routineand knows that, yet,the baby must be fed,but the baby has always to be fednot only the sweetand nutritious mothers milk,but the poetry and songand gentle mental caress

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13/97

of the word will turned,so that generations hence,poetry is still sung to the babywhose eyes dart back and forthin half sleep and is touchedin the deepest corners of their minds

by words that connect them againto the peace of the womband the ultimate peace of Heaven:Like Emily Dickinson,they scrub the floorsof the Halls of Poetryjust to raise their headsoccasionally to hear the angels sing.

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14/97

Beating the Black Plague

It is this that can makethe black syrup cover my brainat such odd moments:

the knowledge that thoughI know now the reasonfor your current sleepinessand lethargy is the baby,your womb that providesthe miracles and the reasonmen like me get an extra fifty yearsto figure out the reason we are here

still, I see the end in this, too,the corpses piled high in the plaguethat will hit as certainly from our ignoranceas those in the middle ages who builtroofs of straw that provided fine habitatsfor the rats who in turn supplied

such fine habitat for the flees.

I want you to love,as I want to live,in health and happiness and peacebut the bargain we struck on the altersaid, "in sickness and in health"with the sickness part first.

So I contemplate this only rarelyand have decided to say it once:I love you so that the thought of youreventual death is the realizationof the temporariness of all this;thereby, my temporary life and lovehas on earth, been granted eternal worth.

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15/97

Gene Kelly

Gene Kelly

skipsand leaps

and twirls

through airthat is his alone

to know

and feeland play with

untilout there

he goes andout there

he flies andout there

he landson a screen

and there

and there

and there

his upper bodybobs and weavesinto the fifteenth roundwhile his legsand feetspin in stage-choreographedprecision

to universal rhythmsof timing and movementthat strike hardinto his dancers souland his bodyspeaks of its painwhile his smilereflects onlythe pure joy

of a body disciplined,trained and hardened

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16/97

by thousands of hoursat the ballet barand thousands morebefore the unforgiving mirror

and he leaps

from the sound stageto the movie stageto the next stage

and all that is leftafter the dancer exitsis the Gene Kelly smilenow frozen in celluloidand real heavens.

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17/97

Dried Flowers

Thats right, I threw them out.Your dried flowers, those olddried up withered dead petals and stemsyouve kept around for years.

Like remnants of a fallow forest,they speak of death and argumentsand nights spent staring at the ceilingafter cold November stares and silences,after deep, deep and awful Winter silences.

Thats right. I threw them out.But I also put the large pink, red and yellowroses that flare in still waters in their place.

The choice is yours.Your beloved if sterile dried flowers,or my fresh-cut roses that even nowbeckon from bedroom night stand.

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18/97

Poem to the Scholarsof These Poems

Remember this,if nothing else,of my poetry...

Before makingyour students sufferreading or studying

or reciting them,know this:

When I wrote them-- all of them--at that three

to five minutesI was happierthan a man

has a right to bein this lifebecause

I glimpsed the next.

When you studythese poems

that transcendentmoment of light,

that moment I knewwhen the poemwas given to me

on the backof an Angels wings,should also be taught.

It was far morepleasure than pain.

Ignorethe ordinary rewriting

and the editorscruel rejectionsand the fool,

drunk with prideand the self satisfied

learning of the Seducesand Pharisees

of higher learning.

And even

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19/97

if you mockthe idea

as you retell it-- still tell it:

Because the Holy Angelshave spoken to me

since grade schoolin my heart

and then departedwhen I beggedthem to stay.

Like a love lived fullybut a moment

such words burnmore fierybecause

their memory lingersin the embers

of knowingthat metaphysical

realityis only one way

and not the best wayof approaching

this life.

When thisis fully

understoodit will be

William Butler Yeatsbedside poems

to study...

...and the worldinfused

with light.

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20/97

Albert Einstein's Light

Albert Einstein lays in bed engulfed in light.While his wife sleeps, he sees light in the dark.He tries to sleep but the light fills his soul.The light overwhelms his dreams each nightAnd frequently claims him during the day.The light takes him to the cosmos.It runs with him through the galaxiesAnd plays with him over the centuries.The light lifts him onto a planetary merry-go-roundWhere he laughs with Plato, Galileo, Kepler and NewtonAnd where they explain their writings to him in detail.Einstein smiles. He turns from his thoughtsTo notice the dark that looms ever larger in the distance.The dark comes closer to him at the university.Then it knocks on his door like a black hole -----So dense that even God-given light cannot escapeThe pull of its ominous gravity. The Dark speaks:"Professor? It would not be good for youTo continue teaching in the Fatherland!"Einstein hears the words, but the lightKeeps appearing to him from around the black hole.Einstein thanks the good Nazi for his information.After he closes the door, he goes and kisses his wife,(The first time he has done so in years)And walks to his study. He lights his pipe,

And the luminosity bounces off his matchAnd quickly fills his soul. A supernovaBursts inside his soul, quickly eradicatesThe stench of the Nazi's recent visit.Einstein tells his wife to pack a few things quickly.He goes and puts a change of clothes, a pipe,And a supernova safely away in his suitcase.Later, he travels a parallax to America.There he unpacks his supernova, kisses his wifeOn the forehead, and rides space-time to the celestial sphere.He points the coordinates around the black holes to the Heavens.But for now, he knows he must master EnglishTo teach his new students about the light.

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21/97

And teaching students about the lightWill be the greatest honor for himUntil the light he has known intimately all his lifeFinally calls him home.Unlike humans, the light is loyal to Albert Einstein.In his final dream, the light tells him

Not to worry about the atomic form of light.Light is light. He smiles as GalileoOffers him a space on the planetary merry-go-round.Albert reaches up to grasp the light ring,Throws back his head in laughter,And joins the Light.

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22/97

Everybody Should Have an Aunt Pat

Everybody should have an Aunt Pat...

...Who could bake cookies from HeavenAnd when you took four from her tray

Said, "Go ahead, Hon. Take a few more!"And when you looked to your own mother

For permission, her smile and nodSaid, "Go ahead, Hon."

So you grabbed eight more.


...Who knew what a Christmas display meant!Who even when the President himself saidIt was unpatriotic, put up huge displays,

Galaxies of brilliant lights that said,"Go ahead, Hon! Enjoy life!

Isn't it beautiful!" in that glorious, ChristmasyWonderful, beautiful, Philadelphia way!


...Who defined what a 4th of July, fitsOf laughter, all-American party should be,Adults arguing politics, children running

Though marshlands gathering punks, neighbors

Schlepping food and drink to the gathering,And fireworks that lit the night sky with

The light and laughter of family love.


...Whom every engaged member of my familyAutomatically went to when they needed a ring

Because she, in her twenty years in jewelrySales and service and marriage counselingHelped more hearts through their early love

And young marriage than the average Parish priest.

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23/97


...Who, even in retirement, checked eating placesFor the County Health Department and, when the

Roaches or rats or whatever were in violation,Shut 'em down, and thousands ate safely,

Without knowing to whom they owed great thanks.


...Who, after a few years at war with cancer,When told, "We can perform another operation."

Had the courage to say, "No. Enough operations."And nestled her soul in God's waiting hands,And sent her heart to Heaven's gate express.


...Who raised a good family, laughed a lot,Loved her husband, helped her neighbors,

Honored her God, worked hard, tolerated most,Baked great cookies, and changed the world

By love and laughter and lights...

Everybody should have an Aunt Pat,For Heaven would be a more crowded place.

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24/97

The Clown and The Elephant Trainer

"Authorities stated that the circus trainaccident yesterday in Lakeland, Florida

in which a clown and elephant trainer werekilled was not the result of sabotage.

They are looking into other possible causes."

January 14, 1994, 9:43 a.m.National Public Radio

The clown sneers at the elephant trainer's threat ------He has heard worse threats over the years.

Once he threatened to throw acid in his wife's face.Another time, to make his children toe jelly under the

Elephants' feet. Even though he does not get the desiredReaction, the elephant trainer repeats his threat.

"You're on notice: You will take that back!"The clown, who feels he is far superiorTo the elephant trainer, wants to play,

So he grabs his crotch, shakes it, and laughs.With that final act of mocking by the clown,The elephant trainer makes his threat good.

He repeats an order his elephants know well."To the left, my children. To the left."

The train lunges and jumps from the track,Tons of steel and people and animals fly through

The air in an act that practice cannot imitate.The elephant trainer sees, as he flies,

That he and the clown are going to be pinnedUnder the weight of the elephants and die immediately.

He takes one last look at the clown.The clown tips his hat mid-air and whispers,"Why weren't you this good all those years

When you were performing in the ring with me, my friend."Both laugh ecstatically as the elephants rain down on them.

One year later, the half million dollar US GovernmentStudy into the Causes of the 1/15/93 Lakeland Circus Train Accident

Concludes: "All evidence indicates that improper track repair andMaintenance due to inadequate funding led to this train disaster."Recommendation?: "Another 5 billion to upgrade the national rail

Network to avoid a repeat of this disaster in the future."

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25/97

To Believe in Angels

There are those who do not believe in angels.

As for me, I tasted the cold blued steelof the rifle barrel after climbingthe hundreds of ladder steps to the tower,pointed it to the sky, at the ground, at my own brain,until, when the time came to pull the trigger,an angel made me think of my mother,of my family, of what the future could beand then led me gently back to the earth,eventually to the cool, healthful waters of Shiloh.

Several children latter, I stare into the gray-blue eyesof my 4-month old and thank God that angels,

human and divine, walk the water-filled planet.

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26/97

Domestic Bliss for a Manic Depressive

Who put these Q-tipsOn my side of the bathroom drawer?The same woman who,When I was in terror,Being forced by the police to returnTo the VA hospital mental hygiene ward,Reached over in half sleepAnd grabbed my trembling handAnd held my body close to hers to say,"It's only a dream, Bruce, It's only a dream."Until the sweat beads cleared from my skinAnd the scary government people in the dreamWere far away in their government buildings again.The Q-tips plentiful in the drawer,

The government workers away in their buildings,My wife at work and my mind able to write poetry,Could this be called a manic depressive domestic bliss?

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27/97

Girl at the Deli

You walk into this friggin deli where youvenever been before all summer hot and friggin angryand there, behind the counter, she stands,

lips big enough for a zip code,hair as fine as spun satin and silkand skin that breaks your heart in two...

you look right at her and stammer, c..c...c...coffeeand she says back, two or three sugars?and you stumble again uh...two...uh...threeand cotton wads grow in your mouth,you smile wanly and she smiles backso unspoiled and athletic and youngand that chemical reaction startsin your brain and WHAAAAAAAMMM!!!once again life has possibilities and hope.

She brings you a cup of coffeeand you sip it and want to spit it outbecause it tastes like its been there since World War IIbut you smile instead because you noticehow fine and bright and clean her eyes speak to you nowand although you want to say Dear God!How can you sell this turpentine as coffee?!you smile again and gulp it down quicklyand say, Just what I needed! Hits the spot real well!And she smiles and says, Best for miles around!How long have you been in these parts?!

and now you know the chemical explosionsare going off in her brain, too,so you drink some more coffeethat is so toxic and strong and fiercethat your taste buds have all mutiniedbut even it cannot kill the wonderful chemicalsthat now grant you the absolution, benediction,and grace of love and suddenly you knowRobert Graves knew what he was talking about:for here, between the provolone cheese and the Zinfandel wine,is clear and living proof of the unbroken chainbetween the ancient Celts and the current White Goddess.

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28/97

Mid-Life Crisis

Sugar and saltmake it taste the best!she said, and I waspulled from the tailwindof the marital argumentwith my current wifeand, startled, turnedto see her by the sideof the Starbuckscoffee condiments standwhile I poured whole milkinto my coffee.

I looked at her and smiled.She repeated, Sugar and salt.If it has sugar and saltit always tastes better.Her face lit up againand I noticed ringletsof auburn hairbeside her expanding smile.

How much sugar does

he like in his coffee?Lots! her friend answered.Yeah. My old manused to sit at the dinner tableand pour sugar into his coffeeuntil half of it spilled out on his plate.Maybe he likes it like that. I said.She laughed.

As she laughed,the claddagh ringon my marriage fingercame into full viewand the sugar and salttaste in my mouthsuddenly turnedto garlic and vinegar.

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29/97

Before I could getthat sugar and salt taste back,I fled into the coolnessof the night airand the anonymityof the food shoppers outside,

remembering that I had a fanto buy for the house,children to raiseand a wife who wanted me homeso she could see her brother-in-lawperform in a bar somewhere.

It would be a Walter Mitty,not a James Bond, night.

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30/97

Coffee Money

Despite the pre-Cana classes,Despite the best advise of friends,Despite an industry devoted to it,Let me tell you friend, this basic truth:Coffee money will save a marriage every time.

Every Friday I take the hundred dollar billsAnd place them under the coffee canWhere my wife takes them and spends themOn all the bills that accumulate in this family:Coffee money will save a marriage every time.

So no matterwhat poetry may tell you of love,And no matterthose fancy $1,000 relationship classes,

If you really want the marriageto last more than the wedding day,

Go to the store and buy a tin of coffeeeven if you dont drink it,Coffee money will save your marriage every time.

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31/97

Coyotes Lament

Honey...this woman

had her tongue

in his ear,one hand in his hair,

another God knows where,and they were speeding down

I-270 in a massive Jeepgoing 80 miles an hour!

For shame.For shame.

Why doesnt thathappen to me

anymore?

Oh, theyreprobably

not married.she replied,

as if that answered it?

Who knowsif they were

married!Point is,

think aboutwhat I said!

Her tonguewas in his ear,her one hand

was in his hair,the other hand

was...well...it could have been

anywhere,and they were

speedingdown the highway!Now thats living!

I said, turning over sideways,dreaming of highways

and freedomand excitement

and loveout of whack

with all sense of propriety.

Like I said,

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32/97

they probablywerent married?

she said again,as if that answered

anything.

Outside,a coyote

called to a jackalloudly,

while the jackalignored the coyotes call.

But, AHHHHthat moons bright tonight.

Just the kind of moona coyote might use

to guide him to the highway.

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33/97

Mid-Night Milk Run

Ladies,Bewareof men

too willingto go

for a gallonof milk at night.

Such timeallows

copiousamounts of time

to hand the bookieor the dope dealer

or the other womanor any numberof temptations

family moneyor the path

to yourmans heart.

So when he returnswith that gallon of milkalways check it twice:

Once to make sureall the cream

hasnt been skimmedfrom the top;

And once to makeabsolutely sure

both he and the milkare still pure and white.

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34/97

The Last Rose

The last rose of the seasonremains uncut on the rose bush

in the unnoticed corner of the yardby the crumbling yellow pine fence.

I could, it is true, cut itand bring it to you, as before;Or simply snip it and place it

in the Waterford vase in the kitchen...

but it is the end of the season.This ruined Fall could soon be Winter.The days with no talk could be weeksUntil the weeks are years, and divorce.

No, that rose will remain where it is.When it dies, its stem attaches to rootsThat are strong in minerals, dirt, water.

And Spring has so much renewal to give.

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35/97

Skaters at Dusk

It is the graceof the skater

sinewy-strengthof muscle, tendonand cartilage

blendedin spun harmonyand perfect symmetrythat glides past you now,

youngimpetuousreckless

that reminds youfiercelyand with no mercythat your daysof young impetuousnessand recklessnessare over ...

... overeven morethan you can

imagine, really,

but graceand its veritieshave only begunto replacethe burdenof actionwith the privilegeof reflectionand day-long thought --

and the carefulrealization

that adviceis nowrarely given

evenwhen

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36/97

sodesperatelysought

by theice

hockeyplayer

and performance skater alike.

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37/97

Whose Pictures Remain

Take in the baby pictures first.New spirit and new flesh shining

Like the sun and moon and starsAll at once saying: Laugh with me!Love with me! Why cant you seeThat this is so much fun!

Take in the wedding pictures next.Remember that day and the days after,How everything was new and goodAnd somehow different and more lovingThan it had ever been before that day.Forget what has been said and done since.Look at that picture like you did that day:Fresh and young, fertile and vibrantWhen pledges of fidelity and eternal loveWere so easy to give and to keep.

Then look at the graduation shots.Great big photos that never look naturalBut in that unnatural light and setting say,Ya made it kid! Despite the difficulties,Despite the money problems! Despite...Well...because of you f own and your familysSecret and expressed belief that you would!And how your face blesses that frameBecause it is you and your accomplishments

Stated before the whole family, and world.

Then go to the walls. All the walls.Look at the progression of the babyTo child to man and woman in states of lifeToo complicated for TV of Film to capture,Despite their having had a corner of their ownThe entire life of those picturesAnd the life they record and reconcile.Consider how many millenniumsThis genetic dance has been done,At times a minuet, but most timesA mashed potato, and the generationsThose pictures both descend from and proceed,From Israel to Alpha CenturiaIn a genetic soup whose ingredientsThe scientists may analyze and computerizeBut whose broth will remain the final mystery.

And if youve still got the strength,Go to the inner sanctum -----

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38/97

Mom and Dads sanctified chamber.Who has the honored place on the dresser,And who was banished long ago to the far wall?How many generations gather togetherIn pictures here? Great grandparents shotsFaded and worn, still exist through the magic

Of science and the wonder of love! Old unclesAnd older aunts, cousins and treasured othersFramed tenderly glass, wood and brass?

And there, that picture of all eight childrenTo which rosaries and benedictions to the saintsAre the primary reason that all eight still live,Despite the ravages of genetically cursed bloodAnd inherited disease, testament to the willAnd sacred grace that overpowers genetic destinyBy the raw but real power of family and bloodTies that somehow overcome the blood curse:That now means 21 grandchildren know love.

And travel to a bedroom in the future,One the genetic scientist and doctorsEven now want you to see as the only way.They point to pictures of beautiful, healthy children,So perfect and trouble free and good...But there are only blank spaces on these walls.Where the picture of a poet could have been,There is only one more computer engineer.Where the picture of a building contractor wasThere is only one more electrical engineer.Where the picture of a truck driver once hung

There is only one more genetic scientist.Where the picture of a car mechanic did hang,There is only one more justification lawyer.

See how science has triumphed at lastOver superstition, ignorance, and pain!?They ask, and such sadness spikes the soul!Ask them to turn now to their wallet or purse,To the pictures to be found preserved therein.Who would you sacrifice like scientific AbrahamsOn the altar of a more perfect, predictable race?The Nazi doctors did this and were called butchers,Our genetically conceived, genetically dependentGene splicing scientists do it and receive accolades.

Look at these pictures anew:And again at your wallet and purse.Consider the blank spaces leftWhen picture frames are removed from walls.Now look at the walls of this fragile human familyAnd consider: In this genetically engineered future,

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39/97

Whose genes are now to be blessedWhose genes are now to be cursed,Whose to future and whose to the trash can,And the current and past consequencesOf power man and arrogant men,And how the Albert Schweitzers of the gene cult

May one day turn out to be insteadThe Joseph Mengeless of the Apocalypse laboratory.

If we are at the top of the food chain:Who would we eat our own young?

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40/97

Old American Ways(A Valentine)

Wheres the gravy!?

she said in a voicethat let me knowit was no metaphor.

I threw it outwhen I did the dishes!I shot back,confident my helparound the kitchenwould cover for anysmall mistakes.

You threw it out!?she answered as quickly.But that was Eamons food!The gravy is the mostnourishing part!

So make him other food.I dont think at 9-months oldwere particularly discriminating.

She was not to be mollified.

LOOK! Dont ever

throw out the gravy again! NEVER!And dont ever do the dishesif youre going to throwout the gravy! I thrownothing out, NOTHING!I use everything. GOT IT!

This was from the womanwhos mother, I noticedwhen I had just taken Eamonto the doctor, had sewnhis shirt with thick, shiny dental floss.The very reflection from the brightlights in the doctors office assuredthat the doctor noticed it, too.In the area we live, such signscan be read as child neglectand, given the right bureaucrator judge, outright child abuse.

Dont you EVER

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41/97

throw the gravy out again!Do you understand me?!Its the most nourishing part.

Properly chastised,I remembered again

why I had wanted to marrya woman from an orchard familyso many years and children ago,and why I still loved this one so.

41


42/97

Jack and Red Hugh O'Donnell

"I guess it's no use being Irish unless you realize

They'll break your heart in two in the end."Danial Patrick Monyihan's reaction uponhearing the news that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated.

Oh Jack...

Today I wept bitter Irish tearsWhen I visited your gravesite's eternal flameAnd heard what they ask of you still."Who's here?" they said, laughing in thatEmpty-headed and arrogant wayThat can lead to dead babies in lands far away.But the decency of the guard clipped their cruelty."Please get your feet out of the fountain!" he orderedAs dozens soaked their smelly feet in Bobby's fountain.

Oh Jack.....

I see Jackie jumping out of the limoReaching out for sections of your brainThat splattered across the trunkTrying desperately to put you back together,Trying desperately to bring you back to life...(Everything after a mere shadow...)

And even then they, the empty-headed ones,Criticized her, saying she should have stayedBy your side when right in front of their eyesShe was trying to bring repair your dream,Rekindle your life, your breath, your spirit,Your magic, you with such abundanceOf the magics, to life. Her, "I love you!"As you bled to death in her cradling armsThe reason Rose loved her to the very end.Whatever sins she has been accused of since, I forgive.I forgive her because despite rumors on rumorsShe knew that "They" did not get you that day..."They" the CIA; "They" the KGB;"They" the Castro Cubans,"They" the Mafioso's; "They" the Military;"They" the White Supremacists;"They".....Who knows!?

Round up the usual hatemongers. It doesn't matter.In the end we all were killed like Oswald in the end.

Oh Jack....

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43/97

We needed you then. We need you now.

The myths alone....Myths to build a country!Myths larger than life itself!

Myths sustainer of a nation!Myths soul nourishing fluid!

Oh Jack.....

I see you fresh and youngA vital 35 at the Cheltenham Mall.The crowd so mixed by preference,No multicultural government programOr diversity corporation training coercionBrought together Jews, Irish Catholics,Methodists, Ukrainian and myriad othersAll comfortable they were AmericansWho believed when you spokeOf a better America for their childrenAnd their children's children.

I sat on my father's shoulders that day,Working class shoulders as powerfulAnd graceful as the mind that told me,"Remember this man, Bruce. He's goingTo make this country great for working people!He's the next president of the United States!"I was only five that day, but I rememberThe joy of my father before you

And the unity of purpose and directionLike I remember the brief joy of my early years.

Of Jack.......

I remember you like I rememberHow my own father choked to deathSo many years later so alone in a dark room.For before both there was great joy,Great accomplishments, great blood loveIn the beginning that leaves me numbAnd baffled that such agony, such horror,Could be deliberate or conspiratalOr an act of God...and thinking of the possibilitiesOnly leads to more confusion and heartbreak.

Oh Jack......

Just recently, after three centuriesIt was finally proven that, as suspected,The Irish legend Red Hugh O'Donnell

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44/97

Really was poisoned by the British.The order was discoveredIn Mountjoy's State Papers.

And for those who thinkThey may keep your assassination

Just as secret in the end,Your smug killers should know,That although it took three centuriesTo prove Red Hugh O'Donnell's murdersHad him assassinated with poisonToday we have computers.To draw the ties that bind such evilAnd when the day or reckoning comes,They will be driven from this landLike before the breastplateOf St. Patrick and his legions.

Oh Jack.......

They killed your spiritNo more than the Viking barbariansKilled the spirit of Brian BoruOr the British Red Hugh O'Donnell.As me dear father used to say to me so oftenI guess it's no use being Irish CatholicUnless you realize your spirit lives foreverWhen they break your heart in two in the end.

44


45/97

Silenced Bird Song

"Bird song most often functions to advertise territoryand to attract a mate. The same song has different meaningsdepending on who hears it. Once the male has accomplishedattracting a mate and establishing a territory,he tends to stop singing."The Bird's Eye ViewNational Bird Feeding Society, Spring, 1994 p.9

So the reasonI am no longer inspiredto write poems of you

has nothing to dowith the ennui of the Europeans,or of the vacuum that explodes

like a North Korean nuclear bombfrom behind my peaceful rest

to another confrontationalong our personal DMZ,

complete with taboo subjectsthat once broached,

lead to interminable silencesand Serbian sniper staresat each others' confirmed,

but ever growingand shifting front lines,

until our childrenare like baffled U.N. "Peacekeepers"

who rub our backsand perform funny Irish jigs

...anything...to stop,

even briefly,our Belfast morningsand Londonderry nights

while our British conscioustortures us

with our memoriesof great past literature

now mockedby no trial internments,each sentencing the other

to seethein our own

mental Cell-Block Htrying to understand

how something so beautifulcould have come

to this concrete cell's questions,both of us

relishing the roleof relentless inquisitor

while fearing and knowing,like an Afrikaaner judge,the pattern all too well:

one minute the victim I torture

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46/97

will be the presiding magistratethe next and the cycle continues

unceasinglylike conflict and war,

conflict and warin this century.

No...my inability to write poemsof you, dear,

has nothing at allto do with my connection

to all these peopleand to all these eventsthat I share with them

in the Nietzschean compromisesof this Faustian marriage.

It is merely the birds' songthat has stopped.

It has stoppedfor reasons far deeper

and more incomprehensiblethan any story

on the evening news.

I sang a song deep and longin poems to attract you...years ago.

Now...that same songI can no longer sing because,

like the birds,now that I have attracted a mate

and established a territory,I stopped singing.

Still...every once in a whilethe thought arises:

Were I to fly to another nest,would my song

ignite anew...or be smothered

in the same biologicaland gender destiny?!

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47/97

Walking to the Other Side

I have heardmy own footstepson the oak boardsof my homeas they travelthump/thumpthump/thumpthump/thumpto remind methat I walkthis earthfor a time...

...whowill stand therewhen the dirtis thrownon my coffin

and say they caredthat my footstepswere onceand they, then,heard them passing

still awakehalf consciousand had no doubtthat I just walked by, saying

The time for tears is over:for I have walked to the serenityand peace of the other side.

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48/97

a dream of love

we make love-----and all

the pent-up powerwithin her

is unleashed

and Iam swept past

great citiesthat came and went

armies that changed maps

and prophetswho threw out the call

until finallycrystalline figuresline the dwelling

and Iam totally in awe

of her shape

and strength

Iwho won her

from her fatherand brothers

in a fightthat almostcost my life

Iwho hadsome part

in the childrenwho burst forth

from her

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49/97

Iwho never

quitecomprehend her

even realize

that right nowshe consumes me

she absorbsmy strength and life

and determinewhat direction

they take

I follow herdeep into spacepast galaxies

and years

to glimpsebeyond

life and thoughtour destiny

lived nowlived before

lived tomorrowall as one

for this knowledge ------I follow.

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50/97

Of Your Earthen Body

This water gains power

and flows full,increasing in pressure

Until it runs intoThe forest.................., the dam..................

...............the massive dike.The pressure builds ------------And this life giving

waterpushes and slams

Seeks some final releaseuntil it can no longer

be containedinside.

And nature demandsher satisfaction

and pulls the waveswith a full-bodied moon

That y..a..n..k..s the waterthrough

the vacuum.

It is here life liveshere the soul dances

here evolution rules

Until, there is no quiet.There is no peace.There is only the answer,"Because there is no other!"To my eternal question, "WHY!"

"AAAAAUUUAAAGHGHGHGHGHG!!!"I scream in surrenderAs the seed-bearing water

overflows the dam,

enters the fertilevalley,And embeds silentlyIn the reservoirOf your earthen body.

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51/97

My Father

"One might say that any great creativitybears within itself a tragedy.And so this is mine..."

Boris PasternakMay 21, 1928Moscow, USSR

My father,always ran and ran and ran

to other peopleconstantly seeking from peoplea pat on the back.

My father,was eaten alive and spit out,

totally destroyedby a world

he could not understandand that could not understand him.

My father,laid on the living room couchand slept

and slept

and sleptfor years.He'd been..................broken.

My father,choked to death one night

and Iswallow and drink

ever sinceonce through the heart

and once through the headbefore he reaches

my stomach.

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52/97

This Broken Silence

They came for the communists, and I did not care,for I was not a communist.

Then they came for the Jew, and I did not care,

for I was not a Jew.Then they came for the Catholic, and I did not care,

for I was not a Catholic.Then they came for me, and there was no one left

to protect me."

Reinhold Niebuhr

I

It was the silenceThat most terrified us.The silence at night.The silence at dawn.The silence of day.

We'd lay downPained

At night......forbidden....To cry out

Our pain to each other.

So.......silently, so silently.....Each second of the night passed,

Silently, for five years.

II

Stienberg screamed once.Screamed, "You Nazi scum!!!Well pay you back someday!!!

Your Reich will last a few years!!!We've been around millenniums!!!

We'll see who survives who!!!

Stienberg screamed this outIn the Silence of night.

He was executedIn the silence of dawn.

We learned the lesson quickly.

Every executionFrom that day on

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53/97

We viewed in silence.Cold, black-steel silence.Cold, gray-dawn silence.

II

Sister Anne prayed once.Prayed out loud.

Prayed, "Dear sweet, sweet Jesus!!!Forgive them all! They don't

Know what they've doing to you!!!

Prayed it again and againWhile a group of old HasidimLike a flock of battered sheep

Who were shorn of their wool locksIn frosted dead of winter

Were pushed by the dreaded overseersHeadlong into the concrete ovens.

The CommandantHad the ovens opened mid-burn

And Sister Anne was toldTo view the Jewish sheepNow charred and black

Before being thrown in with them.

She was executedIn the silence of day

We learned the lesson quickly.

Every murder we witnessedFrom that day on

We prayed,Those of us who still prayed,

In silence.

Cold, ebony-dazed silence.

III

The Pole was silent once,But only once.

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54/97

Commandant screamed,"Give me an answer, swine!

Give me an answerOr you'll die!"

The Pole remained silent.

Stared,Eagle eyed,DeterminedAnd strong,

(all 78 pounds of him)Into the Commandant's glare.

The commandant placedThe lugar's barrel

Tender and gentle-likeInto the Pole's mouth.

"TALK!!! WHO DID IT?!"

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBBAAAAABBAAA!!!WWWWWWWWWHIRZZZBAABBBDDDDDDACKUHH!!!

GI commando's carbine plugFound the Commandant's head.

Silence cracked all over.Cracked by bullets of life.Cracked by guns of love.

Cracked by voicesGruff with fatigue,

GI voices of Pennsylvania,Georgia, California, Montana.

Nervously viewingOur gaunt bodiesAnd death eyes

They triedTo crack the silence

With their foreign talk.

"FREUND!!! AMERIKANISHER!!!SEE!!! FREUND!!!"

"Howzabout a candy bar, buddy?Hershey's chocolate!

Real good stuff!Here, have one, man!!!

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55/97

"Who here needsA plug a tobacco?

"Watcha'll doin'Standin' around quiet for???

Ya'll free!!! Free, ya hear!!???"

The voices spoke to us from everywhereAs the gates swung open.

Then these strange tonguesOf liberation, of life, of loveAsked us to state the abuses

Of our tormentors for the record.

But all we didWas stare back in silence.

The silence of Stienberg.The silence of Sister Anne.

The silence of the Pole.The silence of the Commandant.

The silence of five yearsUnder the Commandant's rule

Who, dead and bleeding before us,Even now made sure the nightmare continued.

IV

Seven years later,In a synagogue in Philadelphia

I took an American wifeBecause she knew nothing

Of the Silence.

Even today,Here incessant American chatter

Is like life itself to me.

And silence,Like loneliness and pain

Lies buriedWith the Commandant.

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56/97

But I know how to speakWith a voice bold and ecstatic

Of life and loveThis moment of presentThis moment of future

To my children.

You see,My voice shouts

To them,To honor Stienberg,

Sister Anne, the Pole,and the American GI.

It has been resurrectedFrom our crucifixions,

And from The Chosen voicesOf millenniums past.

56


57/97

I Am the Serbian Sniper

I

I am the Serbian sniper, and you cannot stop me.Three confirmed this week, seven the last,

And it is all the same to me. Some movement?!Down "Sniper Alley" a child dares the run,

And I see her form clearly in my sights.Perhaps a Croat. Perhaps a Muslim.

Maybe a Jew. In seconds, I make them all oneIn death the way they could never be in life.

The head appears huge in my scope.I squeeze lightly the trigger.

Her head cracks back in one movement.She is the one of a thousand rabbits

I have hit so easily. The bullet hits bothAnd their bodies spasm and the blood squirts

As they hit the ground lifeless. Like the rabbitsI downed by the thousands as a child in the forest

Along the Adriatic, I do the honorable thing.I await to make sure she is dead. If she moves,I will put another bullet into her body or headTo end her agony and win another confirmed.

Unlike the rabbit she pretends no stillness.I chalk another form on the hard wall.

II

I am the Serbian sniper whom the might

Of the new European Community, UN, USAnd the so-called "world community" combined

With its bragging of "human rights" cannot contain.I daily ruin their plans of a "new world order."They fail to realize I am the new world order.I create it with each bullet splintering bone,

With each quart of blood drained from a fresh hit.I am the enforcer of purification, perpetual war.When they hold conferences, I unleash bullets.

You can see who gets more headlines each hour.In fact, I care nothing for nationalism, communism,Or even for the "ethnic purification" about which

All the puke politicians in Belgrade preach.I care only for confirmed kills, for the adrenaline rush

Of the aim, release, hit, blood, and stillnessOf the prey as it twitches and then stops breathing.

For I am god at that moment deciding who will live or die.

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58/97

III

I am the Serbian sniper, the fright of diplomatsI baffle with my simple understanding of man's motives.

One bullet from my rifle speaks more than allThe documents and peace treaties they will ever sign.I am their younger brother who killed cats and rabbitsWhile they studied so quietly and diligently at school.

I am their boorish father, brother, son, they tried to disownOnly to find that I have come back, with gun, for their home.I am the Serbian sniper and you'd better invite me to dinner.

I am tired of stealing food from the pantry of thisSqualid hotel from which I gain my confirmed kills each day.

Otherwise, the people who give me my bulletsWill continue to be my employers when it is a new home,

And not this damaged hotel, for which I kill so deftly.And, as I prove daily with my sniping skills, new homes,

Like new systems, can be built anywhere in the "New World Order."Perhaps you think we could not be neighbors?

Then consider this when next you turn offThe evening news because I look so far away:

As long as there are rabbits in your yard,There will be willing hunters like me in the shadows

Ready to take down whatever moves but never learns.

58


59/97

After leaving Colleen at the Airport

All your angels haunt this apartment tonight.

When I walked into the kitchen,I found one of them smiling at me mischievously

From behind the kitchen door.

When I turned from my writing,Another one beamed a childlike smile at me

And allowed me to be happy again.

This other one began to cry becauseAlthough I knew she was there, I was so unkind

As to ignore her being there.

(Oftentimes, they'll conspire togetherTo sneak up behind me and tickle me and whisper

Lightly in my ear, "We love you!)

I keep trying to have a face-off with them.I want them to stop haunting me but they refuse.They insist I stay aware of you until you return.

As much as I argue with them,They say they know where they belong....with you,

And where you belong....with me.

What right have I to argue with such logic?

59


60/97

Wedding Poem for Brother Bob

I remember, Brotherwe tumbled through

brown autumn leavesand I rolled through them

and over youand screams

and criesand laughterand the smell

of children's sweatand your hair

with leaves stuck between.

Those four toughswho came to get you

and though they were olderand bigger

we had you and Hank and Iand ties of blood between us

to drive backtheir raw meanness

with raw strength of blood.

Charging like savagesthrough the little lot

laughing with torchesand setting fire

until out of the tall grassMom appeared

and seized our handsand extinguished our fires

and gave the both of us a lickingto make sure she got the right one.

And I remember, Brotherthose days

at Holy Angels Grade Schoolwhen we watched

for hoursThe Cross of Christ

and The Flag of Our Countryand we heard Mother Superior say

President Kennedy had just been shotso we all said a Rosary togetherand went home holding hands

because something terrible and adulthad just intruded

into our innocent lives.

There were so many books around!

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61/97

And once you wrote quotesfrom known and unknown scholars

all over the bedroom wallsand the arguments

about the Vietnam Warand the State of Our Country

and only alternativesto what was then proffered

seemed to suggesta way out.

I remember, Brotherthe torpid day

we almost died togetherwhen the aluminum ladder

struck the live telephone wireand you hugged me and cried

and we cried at the funeraland have since left unspoken

the bond that formed that day.

That summerwe shared

in the factory together(that broke our father)

and a man therehad insulted him

and I beat a steel lockerwith my fists

to avoid hittingthat man's cruelty

and cried in the carin the parking lot

uncontrollablyand you understood

the rage enoughto know

to give meall the time I needed

to control it.

The secretsthat we have traded,the looks that require

no words of explanationand the years

we have bridge between.

That womanwho tore me in two

that from the momentof contact

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62/97

you viewed with suspicionbecause you knew,

you knew,because we had shared

those looksthat require no explanation

over space and differing timewe have shared together.

I remember, Brotherthe way your smile

advancesover the mapof our face,

and I measureeach square mile

it coversas I measurethe thoughts

that we have never spokenof the bondsand the bloodbetween us.

I remember thisand pages more today,

my Brother,because when we huggedand you boarded the train

that begins and endswith Babs as your new wife

I wanted herand every wife

and every motherand every sister to know

the strength of the silence,that to remain sacred,

brothers leave unspokenwhich enjoins

that even this poemleave hidden

what is sealedin other chambers.

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63/97

Larry Joe Bird

Where others see only obstacles,Larry Bird sees from mid-court

an opening as wide as the Red Sea

beneath the basket calling him.He breaks to the middle,pain stabbing his backlike a bayonet slicing

through muscle stabbedthousands of times before

like a repeat offender criminaldemanding the immediate

attention of his brain,more pain screaming

from his swollen anklesinsisting like a wife

taken for granted and ignoredtoo many years that,

"Yes, you will notice me now!I'll make sure of that

There will be no more abuse!"Pain shouting from elbows

angry like abandonedchildren from too many years

of abuse and neglect,all shouting in unison,

"Feel the pain now!

Feel the pain now!"but like a soldierwounded in too many battles

to know how to answer the painall Larry Bird's

brain will allow attentionis the call of the open spacecalling like spiritual salvationfrom a mere 15 feet away.

He instantly checks one last timefor an open teammate in the wilderness,

but there is no one to be found.

Larry Bird's mind goesinto overtime

and his photographic memorysees the moves he masteredas a child on a lonesome court

in West Baden come on his screenand a countermove from when he was

only ten and basketball was pureforces its way into his consciousness

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64/97

so that before his opponentseven realize he is onhis way to the basket

to bring faith and beliefto the masses in the stands.He tips his hand to the right

slams the ball to his leftand then twists his bodyinto a pretzel-like pattern

and now the pain is purification,the pain is release from sin,

the pain is fire and icestabbing only numb muscle

because he has mastered its forceand he leaves it behind him now

to leap from the confinesof the earth

to defy what laws of gravitythat still claim some

physical control of his body massand leaps into the Heavens

into the spacewhere there is no pain,

where there is no sufferingbut only the pure white lightfrom the gyms stratosphere

to light the way until"WHOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSHHHH"

and the gym explodes

like a holyroller tent revivaland the Celtics fans high fiveeach other in physical celebration

like the ancient Celtsembraced Brian Boru anew

each time he defeatedthe vicious marauding Viking hordes

to preserve Ireland for theChristian faith and the believersand Larry Bird lands on the earthfully aware, also like Brian Boru,

that the celebration

only lasts until the demandsof the next skirmish or battle,

until the final basket's call.

64


65/97

On What the Future of Civilization Depends

I

"YO! Youse guys know where the party is tonight?"The third of the summer blondes

Asks the streetcornered muscled boys.

"Right here, baby! Get outta dat carAnd come over here!

We'll show youse how ta party!"Smiles Tenderness Tony to his friendsFirst, and then to the summer blondes,

Fully aware of what hangs in the balance.

"Well, we're kinda lookin' for real men.Youse guys don't look old enough

Ta drive our cars or even work on our engines!Wheel it Angela!" laughs Marie.

They cruise around the Wildwood block,Circle and return, compelled by a mating ceremony

As old as any migrating naked rhizopod'sAs insistent as any remoras on a tiger shark

As powerful as any copulating American saddle horses.

At the same time Tenderness Tony and Angela circle each other warily,

Hundreds of thousands of others dance the same dance floorTo repeat ancient and glorious tribal mating rites

Less understood than the circling rites of shark whales off Tahiti.

II

I know many who do not see the wonder of this.Instead, they spend their days saying to whoever will listen,"See! See there! This life is only abuse, death, destruction,

Hate and finally pain, pain, pain and cruelty!"

And it is not just journalists saying this these days.

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66/97

Perhaps such as these have never visited Wildwood, NJAt the height of the mating season.

For there, on any given sultry summer nightWhen the air is as thick with mating pheromones

As the Brazilian rain forest, everything is possible.

"Youse guys still where the party is tonight?"Now it is Maria talking, newly revealed as the princes in waitingWho throws out the challenge to all willing to chance the future.

All three boys respond by raising themselves highTo preen their feathered haircuts like cocks

About to meet their flaring hens.

"Yeah, Baby! I'm here for youse only tonight!He's "VAA VAA VOOOMM Vic! I'm Tenderness Tony

Dis heres' happiness itself,Whose otherwise known as Loverboy Louie."

This night laden with romance and possibility,Despite the miles of backed up trafficTens of thousands in cars, clubs, bars,

All along these dazzling street-lit courting avenuesRhythmically step to this genetically programmed dance

Unbothered by anything but the moment of contact.

Like a novice nun fingering her rosary,Theresa brushes her hair with tender strokesAs Maria parks the car in one swift motion.All three watch the boys in the car mirror,Well aware of what their charged rituals

Are producing in the awaiting Tony, Vic, and Louie.

Each reapplies her love-red glossy candy flavored lipstick,Sprays wave after wave of perfume on her neck and breasts

And saunters over to her instant date for that night.

III

For those who snootily laugh at these young people,Who dismiss their substandard English or their different ways,

I ask youse to please consider the following.

It is on the perpetual success of such everyday ritualsFar more than on what laws Congress passes,

Or what breakthroughs our medical schools make,Or what discount rate the Fed establishes,Or what new worlds the Hubble discovers,Or what programs the President proposes,

That the future of civilization depends.

"Youse guys ready to party?" Shouts Marie.

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67/97

"Yooooooooo!!! Honey! The party's just begun!"Answers Tenderness Tony. "The party's just begun!"

Seventeen years later,Within a mile of where her parents met,

The oldest of Tony and Marie's girls'

Drives by some guys on the corner of 58th and AtlanticIn "Wildwood by the Sea,"

And shouts, "YO! Youse guys know where the party is tonight?"When she does, on the successful answer to her question,

Will the future of civilization depend.

67


68/97

Apollo1-Soyuz 1975

Imagine.............For...one...brief...moment

Two space ships

Approaching each otherIn the vastness.......Of Outer Space.......

You'd heard itWould be quiet....But never knew

What quiet meantUntil meteors

The size of citiesRaced by

As quietly as snowflakes.

What you'd been taughtIn years of trainingLost all meaning

Out hereAs you contemplatedWho made all this.

Time...Too...Became blinking lightsOn a master computer

That reminds youOf your eating,

ExperimentsAnd bodily functions.

Earth-----Your home

Of many yearsBecame a distant memoryUpon launch-----The ActThat changed your life

Forever.

1 Apollo--The Greek and Roman god of sunlight, prophecy, music andpoetry. Also the name of the American space program of the 1970's which along with theRussian Soyuz space program, while chiefly concerned with the sun and other heavenlybodies, in the process created the inspiration for prophesy, music and poetry. Thanks.

68


69/97

Imagine.....For another

Brief moment....A tap on the shoulder

From your commander.

He pointsTo a spot

In the blacknessWhere a green-blue dot

Approaches.

It is them.It is time.

The boxOf white pine spruce seeds

Are placed carefullyIn your hand.

The spot grows larger.It carries markings...

"CCCP" and a red flag.

A brief joltTo your cabin,A door opens

And men appearSpeaking words

That despite

Two years of classesYou do not understand.

They float inSmiling

Holding giftsAnd a plaque

To commemorateThis historic moment

For generationsAnd ages hence.

Only thirty years beforeIn the city of Berlin

Such scenesHad also taken place.

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70/97

Imagine.....At that momentWhat they think

To themselves.....As they take pictures

Of the others shipsFor their respective

Commanding officers.

Did they peerAt each otherSuspiciously

So far from earth'sBoundaries and laws?

Or did somethingDeeper,

Ancestral,Break through

And dominate.......Calling for laughs

And hugsAnd drinks and peace

On this orbiting world?

Did a cosmonaut say,"Comrade! Smile once more!

My daughter would enjoySuch a picture!"

And get the reply,

"Friend, I reacon' somethin'Much bigger than us

Happened out here today!"

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71/97

The Day After

I awaken...........in vague stirrings....

...of dreams...

Was there.............who handled me clean?

In the nights remembrance....

.....sounds of streams....

My strength was dismantled.......

.....beam....by....beam.

71


72/97

Eamons Poem

Kicking your motherfrom inside the liquid universe of the womb...I feel so crippled and broken when considering

I have so much to teach youand only the remaining lifetime to do so.

It is hopeless, really, except these two gemsthat came down from a long, long lineof men and women who survived centuries of Vikingswhose barbarity was only surpassedby the neighbor invader who considered genocideby the rule of law such a jolly good adventureand stole all the food in the very middleof the famine of all famines.

Through it all, your ancestors survivedtenaciously creative and green as mosson the back of a stone on the gentle Shannon riverand these two gems skip across that great riverto the Delaware where once, when wonderingof ancestral roots I asked my father,"Dad, what is it to be American?"

"Work!" "What?" I asked."Work!" he repeated. "Your grandfather worked.I worked. You'll work." "That's all?""That's all." he answered.

"Then what is it to be Irish?""Hilarity!" He didn't skip a beat again."Hilarity!" You gotta make 'em laugh!"So there it is, Eamon Patrick.

If God takes me before I get to teach youall you need to know, let these two words suffice:work and hilarity.

Work and hilarity saved your peopleover centuries of warfare, pestilence, invasion,slavery, defeat, and famine and eventually defeatedthe greatest power on earth so I could write you this poem.

Work and hilarity can carry you to the universeand to other planets and when you finda particularly hard planet, name it "Work"and when you find an especially funny planet,name it "Hilarity."

No matter what the planet or year,

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work and hilarity are in your genesas am I, and all of my dreams.

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My True Home

Justthis morning

I awokeso in love with youthat inside

a cloud BURSTballoon-like

to lift me high abovethe city lightsover highways

and country roadsto an oak cabin

in the woodswhere by a fire

of apple and peach tree

I laid my headagainst your lap

and found theremy true home.

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The Second Transition

her eye cut cerulean blueisolated

sits below ebony eyebrowsclosely observes.............

a stone and mortarcross shaped churchcut cleanly into the sideof a red clay mesa

Montezuma's Castlea gentle Indian tribethat disappearedmysteriouslyfrom the lush green valleywhen the Britishdefeated les Canadienson the Plains of Abraham

desert greena three hundred year oldsaguaro is slashed

by the steel bumperof a freshly machined truckfactory air conditioneddrunk teenager owned

her eye cut cerulean bluesurveys the damage..........

apologizes to Godapologizes to the Indiansapologizes to Natureshe tires of man's ruleand in-gathers the women

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wonders if the time is rightwonders if the women will rule it betterwonders how she ever allowed evolution to go so haywire

sees the mistakeof allowing man his laws

his religionshis wanderings

ever aware of the childrendecides on instinctconscious of loveand continues to procreate

there are years to repair the damageas there were years to allow it

centuries to transmit new genetic codes rebornas there were centuries to allow their neglect

her eye cut cerulean blueisolated

sits below ebony eyebrowsclosely observes.........

the second transition.

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The Life Cycle

A small boyis carriedfrom a carasleep.

His father,tenderly,transports the childfrom car to house.

Years later,when the boycarried the fathergently to the grave,

and rememberedpowerful arms,

carryinghim once,

from somewhere,to somewhere,the life cycle --was complete.

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Factory Mishap

Pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka......pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka...Harry! Harry! Send that shit down here!......pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka...

...pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka...Yoo Harry! Harry! God dammit Harry!......pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka...Pa chunka chunka...pa chunka chunka...

Whooooosh...whoooosh...shshsh...sh...sh......whoosh...whooooosh...shshshsh...sh...Here it comes, boys! Get ready for it!...

...whoooooooshsh...whoooooosh...sh...sh......whoooooooooooosh...shooosh...sh...sh...Get those palets down! Get those palets......whoooooooooooooooooooooshshsh....

Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh....

Voooooooooooommm...voooooommm...voo......vooooooommmm...voooooooomm...voo....They're backing up, dammit! Slow it down!......voooooooooooooooooooooommm...voo.....

...voooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmm..Harry! Harry! Slow it down! Slow it.........

...VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM...VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM...

Bccccaccc...bcccaccc...accccacc...acc......bcccacccc...bcccaccc...acccccaccc...ac...

Oh my God! They're going to explode!..... .... ....bccccaccc...bcccccaccccaccc...bcccaccacccc...

...bcccccaccc...bcccacc...accc...accc...accc...G E T B A C K! G E T A W A Y F R O M T H E M!

...bccccacccc...bcccaccc...accc...accc...accc...BCCCACCACCCCACCACCBACCCACCCCBCCCC...

Paquachaquacha...paquachacha...paquacha..............BAAA...DOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM............

AUGH!........ ...AUGH! AUGH!...........AUGH!!!!.............AUGH!....................................

...BAA................DOOOOOOOOMMMMMM............................................................................................................................

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Words Never Die

When they ask you at school,"And what does your father do?"

Tell them he is a craftsman,A craftsman of fine words.A craftsman in the Medieval sense.A man who takes pride in sculptingCompleted poems out of a vast quarryOf known but inartistically used language.

And when they say,"But isn't that a rather unproductiveAnd silly occupation for a full grown man?"Say to them back:

"No. His words may survive intact,While your father's money is spent,And your father's property is divided,And your father's corporation is absorbed,And your father's wife grows old and dies.But words cannot be spent, divided, absorbed or die.Words never die; only the people who poorly use them."

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forces women control men's lives by

there are forces

that erupt,tear apart,spill out,emerge,

and reerupt,in vast spaces.....

vast spacesof no entrance

or exit

vast interior spacessurrounded

by no exteriors

soulswithin bodieswithin souls

within bodies

spacesthat exist

withinlarger

than galaxies

unexplored

spaces to be enteredhauntingly,cautiously,

for fearof no return

spaceswhere life

determines life

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within these placesthere are forces

quite unknowable

whose only

manifestationis a woman's lovethe birth of a child

forces mencan touch

but neverrealize

forces womencontrol

men's lives by

which menas many times ask

will neverknowwhy

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The Comedians Choice

Two Comedians pummeled an audience with jokes.They jabbed at their collective neurosis.

Swung wildly at their latent fears.Then kicked them right in their lifestyles.

After the round was over,The comedians returned to a corner tableFilled with beautiful women and booze

And sat there nervously trying to calm their anxiety.

Sitting there,

With a choice between the women, the anxiety and the booze,Both men raised their fists to sup their glasses dry,Ordered doubles, and tapped their feet nervously.

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Reflections on New Surroundings

Pigeons watch from abovean L-shaped streetlight

the afternoon processionof afterwork urban manandwoman

home to loved ones, television,dinner, outside interests or no one.

Old gray bearded winowith rayon purple scarf on neck

perched in front of TEMPLE BEVERAGESfeaturing LIQUOR, PEPSI AND CIGARETTES

(contraband up from the tobacco fieldsof red clay Piedmont South).

Down 17th Street ONE WAYdrive white orange black Capital Cabs

blue and white with red roofsirened 96 CAPITAL POLICE cars

AIRPORT SERVICE GREYHOUND BUSall knowing LEFT LANE MUST TURN LEFT.

Along the sidewalk a young Iranian studentnewly arrived to the Land of Opportunity

tries not to look so foreignby wearing clothes he boughtin American Made in Taiwan.

At Saint Matthew's CathedralSanctus Matthaus gold and red tiled

on the front holding Bible saying,"THE BIBLE OF SAINT MATTHEW"

while below him entering and leavingchurch goers look forward past

old crippled beggarwith black ski cap for spare changein hand and wooden crutch by side.

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Highway Poem for Colleen

I

I crash down Highway 98Shouting your name

Screaming your praisesRemembering other highways.....

76 Schuylkill Expressway swiftLiberty Bell love long cast

Philadelphia Art Museum strongWissahickon Creek Green Valley winding

Delaware River DeepBilly Penn Principled

St. Peter's and Paul's blessed.

I look over to see.....Your face laughingYour face puzzledYour face angelic

Your face envelopingMy soul

until your handReached across the distance

to take my hand betweenUntil your hand

Became life itself for mean anchor in an anonymousAnd frightening urban sea.

Where your handProvided a warm and loving home

After cruel, unrelenting city storms.

II78 Florida fun funny

Gray and pink racing porpoisesDiscovering Corinthians wisdomWhile exceeding the legal limit

Kaleidoscope of car colorsExploding in an orange sunBlue-skyed canvas of cars

Cars more numerous than sand.

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I looked over to see.....Your face perturbedYour face petulantYour face pedantic

Your face prismReflecting my soul

Surprised at its powerTo love........To hurtTo run.......To returnTo take.......To give

To break......To survive.When your head rested

Flush with sleep and dreamsOn my lap as I drove

I would have fought the whole worldBefore anyone would have harmed you.

III

95 Kennedy Space Center potentialRockets of love launchedBooster rockets in reserve

Space station steadyStars as loves highlights

Suns burning at nightWhole universes to be exploredWorlds over years to spin lore.

I looked over to see.......Your face brightYour face light

Your face confusedYour face eternal

Absorbing my soulSo that when I saidI might walk away

And you cried softlyIn truth as well could I

Ignore gravityWalk from my familyWalk from God's love

Walk from Heaven's Angels.

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IV

84 Deep South Bible BackboneTiny Bible churches of conviction

The Word is The Word is The Word

Trees so big they wore cloudsSun so brilliant it blinded

Country stores of country caringCountry ways of country sharing

Clay and grace, earth, and rebirth.The cycle of nature ever present.

I looked over to see.......Your face absentYour face somewhere

Your face memoryYour face painingstraining my soul

I drove but in a dazeHalf expecting you to appearAt each country gas station

Or storeBut there were only

Shadows of youThat disappeared

And reappeared in mistsand midnight forest

Until finally......

I

I crash down Highway 98Shouting your nameSinging your praises

Remembering other highways.....

Remembering there areMiles of highwayIn this land alone

Yet to be explored.

Over the miles of telephone lineI hear your voice.

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Over galaxies of futures......

I promise to crash downShouting your name

Screaming your praises

Remembering other highways......

Each old star a memory boughtEach new star a memory sought

For you......for you.....for you.....

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Poetry Work Ethic

...Then theres the poetry work ethicDifferent from any other work ethicbecause it derives from hidden placesand screams,You write down this poem NOW!!!

Write the poem down...despite the baby screaming to be changed,for food, for a bottle, for attention

Write the poem down...despite the stabbing back painthat cleaves the bodyinto two separate bodieseach separate but greater as two

Write the poem NOW...despite the boss over the shoulderalways asking, I hope thats our workyour doing on on our nickel?yet unwilling to accpet the answer,

Yes! The work of God.Yes! The work of the Muse.Yes!..The work of ages...

Write the poem NOW!!!Despite the impediments of familybody, and the day time jobif it is to last into the next milleneaumor even the next hour.

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Blizzard 96

A Frederick man shoveled a parking

space for himself in front of his house,went inside for a moment,

and returned to find someone else had parked there.He felt that he had been violated, said Dorothy Rubin,the mans neighbor. So he went and got a garden hose

and encased the car in ice. Did it in layers. Thats cheeky.Marianne Kyriakos and Jackie Spinner

The Washington PostSaturday, January 13, 1996, p. B4

Imagine...being trapped inside a mind like mine!

Imagine all this damned snow!Imagine someone taking this space

I worked four hours to clear? No way.Man do I have to take a leak....

Son of a....

The hose!!! The hose!!!And Ill lay in on layer on layer!!!

Hell think his car is a metal ice cubein an ice age blizzard drink

when he comes out tomorrow!

Now for the first applicationOf H2O to this putzs car...

Oh...you find offense?You cannot imagine doing this?

You cannot imagine being trappedinside a mind like mine?

Think of the Blizzard of 96.

Think of the person that weekwho may not have parked in the space

you spent four hours clearing,but who exasperated you

in the way that putzexasperated me.

Now think hard about what

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you said you would do at the timeif only you had been able

and his car was sitting thereparked and vulnerable.

Why dont you pick up the hose?Imagine...

being trapped inside a mind like ours!?

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Cream Donut

Yeah, yeah, I know...Its filled with enough

milk and butter and sugarto meet the needsof a small country for a year.

And I knowits loaded with enoughcholesterolto kill eight ratsin a drug company lab.

And I know its sugar doseis large enoughto meet any alcoholicsweekly sugar addiction.

But...if youre ever suicidaltry a cream donut.Treat yourself to its buddydonut shop sugar coffee, too.

As sugar endorphinescareen through your gray matterand thoughts of suicide

wither on the brain vineyour newly functioningand recently appreciatedbrain will remind you:

a cigarmay be just a cigarbut a cream donutand sugar coffeecan save your life.

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The Death of Eddie Polec

Eddie Polec lies bleeding on the steps of St. Cecilia'sWhile his entire neighborhood and a girl friend dial 911;But 911 this night has been seized by the number 666That demands in the way that only Satan and his legions canSilly bits of information and stupid question after questionWhile Eddie lies dying, while Eddie's life leaves himFrom too many baseball bats to the head and body;Until Eddie's last moments on earth are pain and sufferingBeyond what young men save those in warfare feel.But Eddie has already been sacrificed in this warAnd like so many deaths in war, his is so senseless,So vicious, so stupid, so much the result of a governmentThat couldn't even maintain the most basic service,Life-saving phone lines and well-trained personnelWho could be counted on at the other end of the lineTo know how to toe the lifeline of love and lifeAnd caring enough to spare Eddie's life for tomorrowAnd the children and family and celebrations he deserved.I have been at the end of 15 with bats while 40 cheered.I met their cowardice with savagery that drove them backTo where they had to think twice before they attacked another

With such sinful intent. But I had an umbrella and briefcaseWithout which I could have died like Eddie at St. Cecilia's.May the angels carry me to your side Eddie, in time,In time, and may we honor your memory and deathLike men and women of Godly might who know,Deep in the deepest recesses of the heart and mind,That death's like yours can only happen over and overWhen mediocrity and cowardice are as common as ice cream.

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My Poetry Hangs in Donut Shops

My poetry hangs

in donut shops

in hopes thatsome alcoholic

satiating the alcheesbottomless sugar tooth

by mainlining donutsinto his body

who may now havedetermined

to drinkthe Seconal cocktail

(to leave a worldthat stopped noticingten years agothat he was even there)

might look upto read my poems

and decideinstead

like me Dear ol Dato get sober

if for only a year and a halfso that

his eight childrens

last remembrance of himmight be of his final fight

in a life that was one long fightthat led him to rise in the night

(in a way only menwho have slayedinternal demonsthat attack so stronglyand with the serpents cunningand vicious appealeach and every nightcan know)

to slay the alcohol demonsinstead of allowing them

to be his final pallbearers.

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Michelangelo and the Pope

Michelangelo grabs the brush strongly,sees the spot unpainted

like a world before him screaming,dips the brush brusquely

into the painthe personally mixed from clays

outside Romes knowledge,stares straight

to the point of contact,feels the unsteady stroke,

quickly adjuststhe horsehair strands

to within a micromillimeterof the plaster

and begins the riteof sanctifying this dome again.

He is lost in complete abandonto this precious work.

The stabbing painin his back is still there

but his minds eyeforces it to remain numb for now.

Michelangelo pulls the brushto within an inch of Heaven...

...But there are steps approaching.He tries to concentrate

on this one stroke,

but the stepsgrow quicker and heavier

until they stopbelow his scaffold.

Michelangelo!A bit to the left

with Gods hand!We know from the Bibles inspired words

exactlywhere that hand was at the time of creation!

Michelangelo reminds himselfthis is the Pope

and not just one more assistant.Thank you, Your Excellency.

As always,Your knowledge of the Bible

is surpassed onlyby your God-givenand perfect wisdom.

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The Pope smiles, wavesto his most prized pos

civilization 1997

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