On Religion

Place the lay monk in a room

full of earthen statues of men in prayer.

So that when he opens his eyes,

he finds mute reassertion.

And everytime he believes

that it is time to end a prayer,

He shames himself in the reproach of

a thousand glassy eyes raised heavenward.

And each time he places his folded hands

on the warm,thumping cloister under his robes,

To him,it reverberates in the chests

of the solid, cast men around him.

So that all his questions are answered in silence.

And any movement made by him,

driven by his own will,

is an act of infringement.

And so that his fear resides,

Not in forgetting the One

whose name he chants in cycles,

But in being seen when he does so.

good measure

Whoever it was that told you

it's worthwhile to dream of wings

has a stiff-necked, singular way

of looking at things.

There are beings that give up flying

to crawl on all sixes and fours

for wings are no good

when it's pouring outdoors.

Afterword

It won’t be long

Before the careless brush

Of a hand

Will tip over

This tall pitcher of a universe

That holds everything

In its dark belly.

And the crash

That follows

Will be silent

Because there will  be

Nothing for it

To echo against.

And the sudden emptiness

That we will feel

In the pit of our stomachs

Will inverse and occupy

In a monumental vacuum

All that surrounds  it.

We will all be reduced

To empty bellies and

Nothing to feed them.

No way in

And no way out.

And the giant hand that

Tipped the pitcher

That holds the last of

The blackness

Under its fingernails

Will tickle them

In the perverse idea

Of a joke

And we will laugh as we weep

In the helpless submission

That we fell in

As we believed

That the hand

Will always provide

Even if the universe was

Reduced to empty bellies

With no she and he

To fill them anew.

But what will remain are

The thoughts you thought.

For they were empty to begin with.

And the words I wrought

That were light as air.

So stay hungry and

Store a thought in your belly.

That occupies one dimension

But survives the death of

All the rest.

So that after the

Pitcher spills over

And washes away

The last of the blackness

There still remains

The  faint glow

Between our bellies

Of the hunger that made you

Think of my presence

Of  the hunger that made me write

About yours.

Two

It is the easiest thing

To go missing.

It takes a second

Of loose footing

In the sinuous stream

Of entwined cogs,

It takes a distracted

Shift of the eye

To discomforting fogs

Of strange faces.

It takes the chasing-after

Of honking blurs in new places.

It takes the shared shock of strangers

In rooms with a tipping ceiling.

It takes the overlooking

Of a single hurt feeling.

It is easy to go missing.

But I will find you,again,

In this conundrum of give-way gears.

I will deafen it’s humdrum

For a familiar whisper in my ears.

It will take you the effort 

To look twice more

And recall my name.

This much I ask of you,

When I find you again.

Say you will, 

And I will whistle a song

To reach your ears

Over the city’s saucepan

And its senseless hissing.

Say you are, because I am.

And it takes two to go missing.