Drinking With a Priest
Later the priest moots,
"Some dying men stares at me,
holds their gaze as if
by the power death has vested in them
they can see through me and my faith
and how I think about something else,
perchance about tomorrow's lunch.
In the life's Venn diagram death is ∩,
and at that point being and beyond intersects.
A man can see or accept the truth of his
The beers in front of us sucks the warmth
of the room. They taste acerbic.
Through the orange translucency
we can see eachother, a little distorted.
I wish I could see the words compadre
expects to hear, but this is not that day.
No trace of the magician,
a shot glass of jazz
left full on the table,
I decide to convey the bad news
to the organisers
and shake my head;
the rabbit maze-running inside
won't fall out.
I pick up the glass from the table.
Now I dance with the shadow,
a rabbit in me.
The grass of silence undulates.
The audience waiting out there
sounds like an orchestra of crickets
in the befouled greenroom.
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On Mondays the collector wakes up
all he has gathered so far -
each matchbox, brass button,
fountain pen, old map and jazz vinyl.
He grabs his eyes and stare outside.
Downstairs I live in rent -
someone who collects open spaces
fitting for the hearts missing.
I would have stooped to pick those up,
but the process of it feels like
pulling out the magnets from an iron door
The little plops make me shiver - those
noises of hiraeth.
I hear the bloodshed in the collector's screams -
I should shout that he is not the only one.
Look through my open spaces.
Everything is on fire like some ants
underneath a child's magnifier.
One street light still lit,
the dusty clock face ticks
eight o'clock in the morning.
One fly prays amidst
my bread crumbs as if
it is the epiphany, crack of ray
in this gloomy and cluttered day,
and on my table
beside the cup and the plate,
beside the drained coffee and
the deconstructed loaf
sits a now formatted laptop.
I wonder if some cache memories
remain etched in the eternity.
Clouds roll the clpds of early light
Everything, I feel, a bit clotted.
Even the breathing.
I ponder over the medical terms
for this ailment.
This is between
the drafts of my self-help book
'Gain Humour, Ease Into Dying'.
Wind reveals some new shades of red
on the branches.
This tree, so typically tropical,
wears red for the new birth
and red for the death.
The wires running by the Highway
slices the loaves of clouds.
Light is better today
When I drive I prefer silence.
Do not talk backseat.
Turn off the music.
And yet why does my childhood
sit behind the wheel?
Who are you in a red shirt
I drive past you, and you wave
as if passing is one wave,
one of many tiny triangles.
Not one marks the shore.
Tired light drives the planet.