Sunday, May 30, 2010

psalm for the

A barely legible brownstone hand
on a weedy fenced garden tomb,
a weather bleached picket fence
draped with inky newsprint folds,
wet smears of that christ be risen


nickels arced onto felt-lined baskets
meant to wick away chance fears
with an ironclad smooch of redemption
from the pale and lined cadaver
whose son now landscapes mortuaries
with the stench of black mulch
and white and pink impatiens.

Backing with a warning beep
through the labyrinth
of every possible reality:
the manly joy of a perfect weld
painted and worn in blue,
a warm wash of diesel
exhausts from the autobus,


honeysuckle sweet crushed ice tea,
heather lane and holly court,
the patience of water
and the gluttony of flame.

There's nothing civil
about the nubbed ball
with a preteen idol decal
deflated in the gutter
laying limp and beached

but to blissfully piss
in the still of the night
while listening to satori
must be something just the same-

go at them with clippers
and your body hairs
find their own groove:

not always for the squeamish,

this life.


  1. This is the poem one would not regret reading for... i liked the soft flow of your thoughts... it is like watchin' Phoebus risin' at dawn...

    Good day!

  2. Gerry,
    A very deep, but thoughtful read. I liked this very much.

    Best wishes,

  3. Gerry Boyd,
    I love this very much,
    is all.


  4. I anticipated and read this this way:

    go at them with clippers
    and your body hairs,
    find your own gore:

    I wrote something like that years ago, guess that's why I anticipated it now.

    There is no taming it, nor wicking away the fear. Not really.


  5. You just absolutly define imagiry, though I can not spell it to save my life. How spectular! Thank you.

  6. Gerry, I really liked this. Especially the last half or so, but the whole thing too. Thanks for it.

  7. Deflated ball all in the gutter. I drove down the freeway yesterday past a nude plastic baby doll, positioned as one playing dead...arms and feet stretched to heaven. Just a toy, surely, but it got me, as in all we discard and consider as it moments, artifacts, lives. Not for the squeamish indeed.

  8. You always engage my senses fully. And such a perfect conclusion.

  9. @WINDOWLAD: Thanks and welcome again.

    @Eileen: Cheers.

    @all ways: That's quite enough if not almost too much. Gracious thanks.

    @WIAW: Gore? Icky! The fear is tamed by watching.

    @Autumn: Spelling is over-rated. I use a dictionary all the time.

    @Old: Half of me likes the whole thing, the other half not so much. Time to move on.

    @W&W: True that. A moment that matters somehow even if we don't know why.

    @Francis: Much obliged.

  10. pleasure to be here again...!:)

    Good day!:)

  11. Oh been missing you, your art with words> unique..



  12. @Dulce: Thanks Dulce. Nice to see you back around. ;-)

  13. this was a lovely read, so much to appreciate here, and I got such a strong sense of time,passing... passing; the " then's" were delightful!

    and the ironclad smooch of redemption, a great phrase.... what more could one need, really?

  14. Literary left hook, right hook and uppercut were all delivered herein. Specially liked: "the patience of water and the gluttony of flame."

    Impressive as always!

  15. "...ironclad smooch of redemption"


  16. @Harlequin: thanks. time matters, right? even though it's an illusion, it's the only thing we seem to be unable to get more of.

    @OE: Bobbin' and weavin'. Thanks.

    @willow: hard to imagine a bad smooch, right?

  17. as you continue to amaze me ;)
    always glad to see you. smooch!