weeds and rats

the beast stands at the edge of the river
where it wraps around the ancient village
the soldiers slouched in the back of the truck

have fidgety hands, ready for card games,

beer, or pillage

the markers on the road pass by,
another kid perhaps to die
a blazing would-be hero while

the quiet ones glow
somewhere in an alley

the hog grazing beside the river wanders off.
the captain says: men! the mission went so well,
because after all, we are heavily invested

in the services of hell.

then I met a woman
who made me gasp and quiver
but eventually I understood,
that emptiness
was all that I could give her

and yet,
i didn’t want to see the world
go to weeds and rats
mining for old plastic
and eating dogs and cats

the cars all rusted,
the birds gasping for breath,
all the toys broken
or dress rehearsing death.

i was driving down the highway
and i saw bluebelly lizards
sunning themselves in the median strip,
a beercan toss away
hunting for bugs between styrofoam cups,
and marlboro butts.

I saw sparrows eating moths off radiator grills.
they say coyotes eat the poodles
when they come down from the hills

I don’t want to see the world
go to weeds and rats,
i want to see eagles.
rhinos. frogs. and bats

i want to see spring oaks explode

in leaf and light, with a thousand golden

finches bursting into flight.

once there was a hummingbird….
who hovered in the spray
from my garden hose
as i watered a climbing rose.

that’s what I want to see
-not pigeons missing toes

Stop and smell the sagebrush

Took a long loop

around king’s mountain.

pulled leaves and needles

off shrubs and firs

Crushed them in my hand

to see what scent they held.

Making sure that I could

still smell them.

Because that’s a symptom;

loss of taste and smell.

Not that I was seriously worried,

I had enjoyed my breakfast.

The Douglas fir and Scottish broom

didn’t release much scent,

so that planted a wee seed

that was reliably relieved

by the leaf of a bay laurel

and a pinch of coastal sagebrush;

aromas that summon the summers

of a childhood roaming the hills.

It was a long loop.

By the time we got home,

we were famished, so our prayer

of grace was particularly sincere.

Patience

Blind salamanders

in the flooded caves

of Herzegovina

can live a hundred years.

Not doing much of anything.

One calm individual

hasn’t moved at all

for seven years.

They wait,

listening for

a snail to move.

One meal

can sustain them

for a decade.

Every dozen

years or so,

they mate.

What dreams

does such a

creature have?

In the cool subterranean

flow of crystal waters

in their century long night,

do they dream of drifting

through the darkness

of intergalactic space?

Do they summon

ancestral memories

of when their progenitors

were the first to walk

upon the virgin earth?

In their blindness,

perhaps they seek

to see the face of God.

The corner

On the corner of 1st

and nowhere,

The scent of roses and poisons

drifts through the air.

The souls who truly see me

beg for a dollar or a smoke.

Even when I don’t

have them anymore.

And the feathered clouds

that twist above the city's towers

don’t care as much

as God and I do.

Growls and whispers

linger in the doorways,

and a thousand earbuds play

a thousand private songs.

I overhear walking endearments,

arguments, and deals.

I see caps and hats and hair,

long or gone or blue,

the shod and shoeless,

rags and suits,

miniskirts and sports gear,

ragged beards and lipstick.

I'm watching the little man

change from red to green

at the corner of now

and nowhere

where I've sometimes found

the connection

between the pedestrian

and the sublime.

Dear Jesus

I know I’m a latecomer to the conversation.

Centuries, millenniums? So I hope you’re listening,

But I’m sure you are. In between the pleas for respite

from chemo treatments or hitting this week’s lotto.

Why did you have to die?

I thought it was always said

that it was to atone for our sins.

But now I see that it's more complicated,

There are various theories

of what your atonement was for.

Very formalized doctrines:

The Moral Influence theory, the Ransom theory, 

the Christus Victor theory, Satisfaction theory,

Penal Substitution theory, Governmental theory,

Scapegoat theory. Which ones are right

or wrong or is there some synthesis of all?

Some of of these are premised

on some kind of transaction.

God paying a debt to Satan.

for Adam and Eve’s transgression.

Or that it's our debt to restore

God's justice for our own injustice

and Your sacrifice was to restore that balance.

Or to propitiate God's wrath.

Much as we might deserve it,

I don’t believe in God’s wrath.

We don’t require that, we are more

than capable of inflicting that on ourselves.

And have. It’s called history.

Seems to me that Satan

is quite likely our own creation.

God is Love. I like the sound of that,

Truly it does restore my soul.

And the proof of Your love is that

we're still here, with all our failures

and ephemeral triumphs.

And now with the means

to destroy ourselves;

quickly in a nuclear storm,

or slowly, as planetary cannibals.

That's the Devil we've created.

We can see him in any mirror.

And yet, babies still smile

until the cruelties of circumstance

or society erase the exuberance

of their new lives. And even then,

sometimes they persevere.

I see the presence of Your love

in their eyes.

Ok, I’m sure You’ve heard all this before,

probably raised an eyebrow or exchanged

an eye roll with the Buddha, Krishna,

and the Prophet.

What does Groucho say to Karl?

You bet your life?

So here’s what it seems to me

and I could be totally mistaken,

The cross is where X marks the spot.

Where the treasure is buried.

The crossroads between all

that came before and all

that has come after.

That sin must be expiated, sure.

By each of us as you did.

It is not a debt to God for some transaction 

In the cosmic market, it is the debt

owed to the fact of our existence.

The universe took almost fourteen billion years

for consciousness of itself to emerge.

I can only conclude that You

are incredibly patient. So I beg of You

to bear with us a bit longer,

we may get there yet. 

Yes, I know You died for all this,

and had that moment of agony

when even You asked

if You had been forsaken.

But You weren’t, were You?

And neither are we, by You.

I know this from the gifts

You have given me

after all that this life has taken.

Maybe I have answered

my own question, You died for love

so that it would be everlasting.

Is it that simple, or as complicated

as those various theories?

If You wish to tell me more,

send it to the usual address:

my heart

Thank you.

Your faithful servant,

Mark

Shadows

What stranger was that

who walked past my grave?

I looked to the unyielding sky

for the cloud whose shadow

gave me a shiver and found nothing

but emptiness in the infinite blue.

I lay down in the sweet grass

beside a mirror bright lake,

waiting for halfdreams

and reveries to come.

The cry of an osprey

wheeling above

invaded my slide 

into drowsy contentment.

What alarm is this,

this sourceless shadow,

this chill at sunny noon?

I looked up and saw nothing,

not even the bird whose cries

had disturbed me.

It must be that stranger

standing over my grave.

Then I slept without

any dreams to remember

and when I awoke,

I was hungry for bread

and thirsty for wine.

But my bag was empty

except for a much-thumbed

old book I’d lost and now found.

So I read a verse,

my grandfather’s favorite,

and the shadow and hunger

were gone.

C-rations

We ran through a couple of quick launches

of our mobile nuclear missiles before lunch.

Butterflies flitted through the grass

of this German meadow

somewhere north of Stuttgart.

We waited in the chow line for the mess cooks

to fish the canned entree portion of the C-rations

out of a big cauldron of steaming water.

Wilson was already whining,

Oh man! Anybody wanna trade?

I got ham and motherfuckers!

Nobody did, because everyone

hated ham and motherfuckers,

that’s what soldiers call ham and lima beans.

Why don’t you trade with Saylor?

That Alabama farm boy’ll eat anything.

Except even he hated ham and lima beans.

I lucked out - frankfurter chunks

and baked beans in tomato sauce, beanie weenies.

Then we grabbed the boxes with the rest of the meal:

the so-called bread course, desserts, and smokes.

I got crackers and pimento cheese spread,

a can of fruit cocktail, and four Lucky Strikes.

Sergeant Burgess was right behind me

in the chow line. He says, I’ll trade you

my pound cake and peanut butter

for your cheese spread and fruit cocktail.

You got a deal, Sarge. You keeping the smokes?

No, I brought my own,

you can have these Pall Malls,

I don’t know how you can stand your

unfiltered Camels or Luckys, you barbarian.

He says, How’d you like your first time

in the Battery Control Center?

Out of the sun and in with the big boys,

where we pull the trigger.

I said, It’s not bad, what are we

practicing anyway?

He says, eagle strikes.

What’s that, eagle strikes?

Well it’s like this, if the Russians

look like they are getting ready

to come across the border,

we’ll hit ‘em with these birds.

They’ll find out that God

don’t look like Karl Marx.

We’ll make Hiroshima look like

setting off a cherry bomb in the boy’s bathroom.

Ivan and Boris will be roasted and toasted like

marshmallows that got caught in the campfire.

Their bases will be nothing but a pile

of charred toothpicks and kitty litter.

We nuke them first? Before they launch?

Before they even cross the border?

Damn straight! We aren’t gonna let them

catch us bending over with our pants down

and no vaseline. We fire off these birds

and get out of Dodge. Double quicktime.

Lemme have that chow, here’s your poundcake.

No thanks, I’m not real hungry anymore

but I’ll take the smokes.

Suit yourself, don’t wander off,

we’re gonna do another count at O-thirteen hundred.

Okay, I’m gonna just find some shade

and have a smoke. See you there.

I sat back against a rough barked pine,

watched the butterflies dancing in the meadow

and lit up a Lucky Strike.

Realized what I’d actually signed up for,

escape from home, great beer,

nuclear war and German pussy.

I could stand the Army chow,

but mass murder was not my picnic.

Only God and Richard Nixon could help me now.