New World (Part 5) – A Poetry Journal

2-13-22 – 10:03 a.m.

The crucifix over my desk reminds me that I’m a small part of a larger whole among the billions of people on earth. I don’t go to church. Nor do I even know if I believe in Jesus. But my Catholic roots have stayed with me. No matter how terrible the Church has been, the traditions still speak to me.

My dreams speak to me, too. The moon was bright in the sky last night. I’m not sure what phase it was in, but it was partially concealed. I’ve read before about how the moon is so powerful it can affect our moods. This makes sense since it often affects the tides in the sea. When she is in Texas this week, we’ll both look up and see the same glowing orb. It will bring me comfort.

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Momentarily Sane (a poem)

My lover chisels away rough edges
Around the center of my heart
But sharpness still remains

I cannot contain darkness sometimes
Lying on concrete in the cold dawn
There’s a man standing above me
I reach for the rosary he carries

He offers salvation in a kind way
Not like the charismatic preachers
I used to know in traveling days
He tells me, softly, that Jesus
Turns his back on no one, including
Pimps and hustlers with their
Scarred faces and crooked teeth

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Shadow Footsteps (a poem)

Underneath the cold, hard ground
I found the key to my soul
And I praised the gods of winter
Who enjoy the dead trees
And fallen leaves that rustle
Like shadow footsteps

In dark nights of lore
The high priests were astounded
By the teenage Jesus
No one believed us
When we saw him heal the blind men
In the sticky subway station

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Take Me to the River (a poem)

Take me to the river
Wash me in muddy water
It’s so cold that I shiver
Adopt me as your daughter

The river water heals me
Brings me closer to my personal Jesus
We sing songs in a minor key
The river water frees us

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Fever Dreams (a poem)

I wake in a cold sweat
Another fever dream, it seems
Before the dawn of innocence
And the theft of the ancient city –
As above, so below, that’s how
The stories of old always go

I dreamt of my father, his weary
Face, as he robbed the temple
And flipped over tables
Of the money-changers,
Like a backwards Jesus,
Taking gold coins and shoving them
In tattered pockets of lore

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Preachers of Parasites (a poem)

Tangled up, perpetual twisting
Gazing at the gray horizon,
The silent sky falls and
Blankets me, as we always knew
It would, as it was predicted
By preachers of parasites.

When the sky falls, all is one –
stars ignite the Earth, and I am
The last man alive – but this
Is only a recurrent nightmare,
My analyst says,

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The Passion (a haiku)

On the cross, Jesus

cried to his Father, and then

the universe shook

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