Davy

“a blaze of glory”

it sounds 

so romantic, so fantastic

to go out that way.

but i want to live in

not go out in

that blaze, not a phase

in the end.

so i pretend.

but i’m no hero

just a zero -

here.

the bastards got to me again.

or rather, i let them.

news flash: 

i’m the bastard, constructing a last bastion

of defence, like a fence, only more useless.

i reckon i should reconnoiter a bit

before locking myself into my own tomb,

as they slap a face i could never hope

or care

to save.

we remember

a man who died fighting for liberty.

what a hero.

most of us forget what he said before that though…

“You can all go to hell.  I’m going to Texas.”

as good a place for a blaze of glory as any,

i suppose.

To Wolfgang, with love

ran through this obstacle course 

and tripped, of course.

and now

now

here i am, wishing i could kick Mozart 

in the testicles and 

take the beauty he could create

and pass it around like a good little communist.

not enough to go around.

where’s my share of beauty?

i spent it on something trivial 

i’m sure.

maybe if my middle name was 

Amadeus…

but what have i created besides a fusion of

mexican tacos and chinese dumplings?

sure, they tasted good - one might even say damn good -

but ultimately, who freaking cares?

everyone wants to be able to point their finger and  say,

“i made that.  isn’t it beautiful?”

but these days, i seem only able to point toward the sky -  

with the wrong finger.

“look at this.  how’s that for beautiful?”

i suppose if everyone could create beauty

then no one could.

and with that realization, Wolfgang, 

your manhood is safe.

- still looking for mine

Voices*

voices rise

no matter the language

the words bring us

an impossibly marvelous

wonderful

supernatural

moment -

the moment Your

eyes turn

and see us

and free us

we, 

sinners all,

glorious vagabonds

yet saints,

with no restraints

recognize

and realize

something sings new

rings true.

we can no longer

give in

when within

we play host 

to a holy ghost

who loves us most

passionately.

and so…

our plurality 

turns to singularity

what is made is a choice

what is raised is our voice

*Written after participating in a small group prayer meeting where people spoke in their native languages

Cross that Bridge

Mile wide,

just as lazy.

from this bridge i see

both sides,

muddy waters below me.

Mississippi.

Roll on, roll on,

down to that delta,

into the sea.

it’s hot down there,

and the airiscloseandwet.

reminds me of those afternoons

catching the train in Shek Mun,

sweat, and more sweat,

another time, another place.

I still see their faces, hear their laughter,

the ones I would die for still.

God, it hurts.

but hey, we’ll cross this bridge together.

across the flood plains, and there’s Memphis.

my son has no idea

he’s such an international jetsetter,

born right there in City One,

only gweilo that day.

been dragging my family all over the world,

perhaps the wandering life is our destiny.

not so bad, I suppose.

and the ones I loved in Shek Mun,

they will travel with me,

whether they like it or not,

each one a precious moment of my life.

but tonight,

I cross the Mississippi.

Under the Weight

while sitting under the weight

            of slights real or imagined

i noticed the scenery never changed

unless you count the loss of color

leaves on slate trees, gray like

elderly skin, and just as thin

as mine

flutter about this patch of ground

i chose to sit upon

what i believed i must trust

            was a bust.

            and my soul

turned red with rust.

so i dig a hole in the shade  

to bury this picture of you

Merciful

sticks and stones do what they do

while your words cut

like a nick while shaving

and blood circles the drain

you claim your Jesus

with lips bearing false witness

and i -

i have done the same

“blessed are the merciful”

i have not felt blessed since…

well, my memory fails me…

let us remember

together

what mercy means

as if this was the 4^th day

future tense

future.

i thought i knew you.

fast friends.

knew my place, knew your face,

this was supposed to be IT…

well,

it was.

it was.

then it was a dream.

up and gone,

far and fast,

trying to make beauty

from yesterday’s trash.

like a so-called artist

making murals with bottle caps

with a smile and a tip ‘o the hat. 

that is his future and he knows it so well. 

started with a mission, ended

in bottle cap hell.

oh well.  i bought into the

hard sell.

became a salesman myself,

selling an image of righteousness

i am wearing with selfishness

like designer shoes - over-priced foolishness -

so that you might shine bright.

But you burned me

returned me

to a harsh reality.

so future,

i gotta be up front:

your number is up, finished

like my coffee cup.

and if i know anything for certainty:

spiritually, relationally, and rationally,

you will not control me.