Asleep at the Wheel

Once upon a time
I knew beyond a doubt
that I could not be held
accountable for my flaws,
since I’d inherited them 
from my parents.
The blame, therefore,
was all theirs.

Next, when that argument
no longer held water,
I taught myself to
believe in destiny.
Since God had it all
worked out beforehand,
since my future
was already written,
all my mistakes
were inevitable
and I was simply
following the course
laid out for me.

Now I sit and watch the last
shreds of tobacco I own
float in leftover milk,
watch the smoke drift
up and stain the ceiling,
pour along the surface to
look for a way through,
and wonder if I may
not have been wrong.

The Boston Common

A man who once owned a shirt
and could remember his parents’ names
wanders down by the Duck Pond
with a sign borrowed from a woman
who took his hat in exchange
for her last cigarette.

Hands at his side, hiding
his ribs, he holds a sign.
A path clears for him as
he walks over to
the edge of the pond.
He steps in to ease his feet.

The deep blue sky offers no clouds
for the sun to hide behind.
His leather face, made darker
by his white beard, keeps the sweat
from seeping into his pores.

He looks down at the sign, listening
to the kids laugh and splash.  And
even though the woman told him
the sign asks for money, he tilts
his head back to the sky and thinks,

“Right now,
all I want
is my hat back.”

The Year of Drinking Dangerously

Once, I preferred my spirits clear,
until the day I looked down
and saw Judas in my glass,
wearing my hair, eyes, and beard,
and a smile broken
by the rippling liquor.

A vision, yes, nothing more,
and certainly not prophetic.
Now I make sure to hide that
vision in muddier waters.

I know that it’s still there,
but I don’t dare take the bottle
out of the bag to look inside
the flask at my history
of dirty rings, or see
what little reserve is left.

Prognosticate

Lost in the debris of
plume and smoke as the
mighty seraph falls
is the defiant cry
“Rebel!  Renege!  Renounce!”

O! and such a tempest
when the Host wails:
Kyrie!  Kyrie Eleison!
our ranks defiled – and
who now to fill the Void?

While down below a child
free now of the womb
coddled in soft down
opens her blue eyes
to see angelic remains

Artwork Copyright 2008 J. Sarmento, used with permission

The Second Day of Christmas

Boston – December 14, 2008

Late on Sunday,
and you would think
that Tremont Street was
the center of the world.

Stuck pumping water
at perfect bath temperature
from a manhole eight feet deep,
watching, and waiting
for time to pass.

The snow clouds move in,
reflecting a plum color
from the city’s lights.

Down the way, a motorist
sings about Christmas Spirit
to a tone-deaf traffic cop.

An elderly couple, with collars
turned up to the wind,
share a bag of popcorn and
their opinions with each other.

But it’s across the street
in The Common where
the Christmas tree glows
that I see something that
stops my wandering eyes.

Outside the white fence
that surrounds the tree,
a mother kneels while
her son stands by her side.

Her head is bowed and awash
in blue, green, red and white.
Her eyes are closed.

And when she rises and
makes the sign of the cross,
for the briefest of moments
my heart soars.

And I say a prayer for her as well.

Retired In Place

Two years ago today,
my best friend died, gorgeous
as he had been in life.

Never mind the shrapnel
that stuck out of him
in a thousand different places, or
the soot that was plastered
over his burnt skin.

Never mind thoughts of him
slumped on the floor
in a room you couldn’t
breathe in,
let alone see.

Never mind the picture
in your head
of white streaks on the
blackened walls -
his handprints as he sought
a desperate escape.

Never mind the closed casket funeral.

Yesterday, the building manager
told me that room’s been
sealed off, never to be
used again.

Too many bad memories.

Except of my friend, who is
always gorgeous
in my mind.

Chansonette Pour Enfants

Amidst the grove ‘dorned with festoon
in silver shine sent by la lune,
a fête under the apogee
thrown by minute argenterie.

‘Où est le chat?’ rose through the air
the cri of bent Madame Cuillière.
“Bah!  That feline’s always slow,”
dit choleric Monsieur Couteau.

“One word describes that cute coquette,
fainéant,” spat M. Fourchette.
“Chop his moustache!” squealed three cochons.
“Then we can string our violons.”

Cawed la corneille in her patois,
“Please, let’s forego all this hoopla.
You fear the mouser’s mighty maw
and being part of his repas!”

The raven’s rumble caused a roar
amongst the corps of nurs’ry lore.
Clucked Madame Poule, “I’m no dîner!
You’ll not make me chicken soufflé.”

“Quelle horreur!” shrieked the mice, all nerves.
“We’re perfect for the cat’s hors d’oeuvres!
Since we might taste good with bordeaux
we’re just like little escargot!”

“You fear a bête with velvet bottes?”
said young Pierre clearly distraught
“The wolf, I hear, just loves boy stew.
Your lynx is limp compared to loup!”

With tears that caused a small deluge
spoke Le Petit Chaperon Rouge:
“And since I’m sweet I’ll not refute
to him I’d make a fine casse-croûte!”

And as the panic swept the throng
just who happened to come along
but Messrs. Chat, Loup, et Renard
back from their trip to the barnyard.

“Ah, quelle dommage!” the wolf howled out,
wiping the drool off of his snout.
“Chance was not with us at the farm
with Farmer Mac as the gendarme.”

“Too true!” said fox with russet coat.
“His pistolet seemed to connote
that in exchange for our banquet
we’d have to suffer his gunplay.”

“Mais attends!” yowled the famished cat
and grabbed the wolf by his cravate.
“As sure as my boots are velours
I think I’ve found our nourriture!”

The cat moored back the foliage
and saw a sight that gave courage -
a soirée full of scared folklore
unknowing of les carnivores.

Les trois amis snickered in jest.
“In front of us is a beau-geste,”
said fox to cat.  “And look! Complete
with knife and fork and spoon.  Let’s eat!”

None did survive the trio’s faim;
they dined on flesh, chicken, and ham.
There’s just one thing left to discuss -
the littered pile of detritus.

A cape of rouge, three walking canes,
the sallowed beak of E. Poe’s bane,
small piles of brique and stone and hay
which sit undisturbed to this…jour.

Caecina Paetus

Wife devoted,
for who could ask for more
devotion than this?

Here I sit amidst your devotion running
down the tip of this blade
and from your shell to the cold, unmoving stone
‘neath the boots of Legion.
If I could I would gather every drop
and put it back where it belongs,
inside you.

Such noble intentions should have remained mute,
as should have your hand.
Now we leave a daughter soon orphaned.

The red that stains my flesh
as I trail my fingers along your porcelain skin -
veneficus it must be to pale your essence so soon.

The red that seeps in my robe
as I kneel by your side -
veneficus I now need to kiss your wound and repair the Deed.

The red of my own that will soon join yours
as I contemplate this wicked blade -
veneficus will hold back this damnation no longer.

I must ask you ere I depart,
have you found nobility in your act?
Or would my death as Lamb sacrificed be more just?

No need to answer my Love.
Just allow me a few moments more
before I suffer your fate
to take final note of your hair
your hands, your breast,
seeing it now from memory.
Unblemished.

You spoke the truth when you said
the Gods conspire.
Can you now see Juno and Minerva
mixing elixirs ‘twixt the two,
drawn from Proserpine’s River Styx?
And to what end do they portend?

Hear me now Centurions!
Before you now lay sacrifice pure -
no, Devotion Incarnate!
Because of my own reluctance
my path was laid bare by this matron.
Remember her well,
and remember not my Cowardice

Whom you ask do I curse more?
Scribonianus the Lucius or
Claudius the Lame?
Both share the blame
for playing their roles
in this Dead Man’s Game.

My final thought hastens my death.
It dulls the nobility of the Act.
How could you leave me with the knowledge
that your final words
were untruthful?

Non dolet?

For whom do you speak of here?

Did you not realize that when you pulled the dagger
free that my soul would flee its’ Host as well?
As my heart still beats
and my eyes still see,
I cannot believe
the conviction of your words
spoken through bloodied teeth.

You leave me no choice
but to find out for myself.