Some call it Ugly Wednesday

 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1 ignition.

And Artemis II carries Integrity

towards Luna, a bright arrow

arcing beyond Terra’s daughter.

Four people of honor

and skill carry our hopes

and dreams with them

on a mission of peace

not a missile of death.

How many hospitals

and carbon-free power

sources could be built

for the dollars and research

and effort invested in

this mission.

On this Wednesday two

days before the crucifixion,

at the house of Simon the leper,

Mary of Bethany anointed Jesus

with a pound of pure spikenard,

precious as a years wages .

A disciple objects, comparing

what could be done with 

the sale of the nard to feed

multitudes of the poor.

Jesus tells him not to trouble

the woman, she is anointing him

as was customary to honor

the dead before burial.

The poor will always be there

and He will be gone.

Some say that the one who

questioned using such a precious

ointment was the one who

betrayed Him for thirty pieces

of silver to the conspirators

who wanted to kill him.

All these centuries later,

there are those who are

ready to strip the protection

of the creatures of the sea

for the profit obtained from

our time’s precious oil.

And He spoke truly, the poor

are still with us and when He

died He was already anointed.

Many have called the launch

of a rocket, “lighting the candle”.

And we saw that incredible

sight this day. And tonight there

will be smaller missiles launched

with no glory in the payload

just gore and destruction.

Some churches have a special service

on Ugly Wednesday called

a Tenebrae service, which is

more often done on Good Friday.

The symbology is the same.

Candles are snuffed out one by one

as the world moves into shadow

with His death immanent or in

the full moment. This is followed

by a big noise, like the earthquake

as His soul departed.

People miles away from launches

at Cape Canaveral report

that the noise is so loud,

the shockwaves so intense

that you feel it in the core

of your body. That candle

has just been lit. I pray that

it brings the hope it has promised.

Still thinking about figs on Tuesday

The last Tuesday in March
this year is the one named
for the fig tree on the way
from Bethany to Jerusalem

that Jesus cursed
and caused it  to wither
because it was barren
and he was hungry.

It was also the last Tuesday 
in March exactly ten years ago
when my brother Matt put
a .357 Magnum to his temple
and pulled the trigger.

Not the temple where Jesus
taught on that final Tuesday
of his life two millennia back
after he rode into Jerusalem

on an unblemished colt
on a path strewn with palms.
My little brother chose
 a Smith & Wesson not a Colt.

I don’t like March anymore.
Give me Easter in April evermore.
With lilies or tulips, poppies.

Mud-speckled blue belly lizards
emerging from winter’s shelter.
Not that cold mossy house
with a barrel of bottles and
the ashes of joys forever
beyond resurrection.

Matthew, Matthew, apostle
and brother, here’s my hand.

Does it reach you now,
through the veil through the
words of your namesake?

Some thoughts on Fig Monday

 A world reckoned

in dollars per barrel,

replaced the blood

of lambs and doves

on the altar.

A world now wrecked

for the sake of men

who’ve forsaken

their obligation to all

or any covenants

with God or simply

humanity -broken.

The tables that need

to be toppled today

are the gargantuan

beasts in the

boardrooms

and war rooms

of the present day

gods of Mammon.

Are the planks milled

from the trunks and

flanks of fruitless fig trees?

Polished and gleaming,

each place setting

adorned with crystal

goblets of spring water

ready to bless the

doctrines and documents

that send explosives

whistling from the bellies

of bombers and fighters,

destroyers and carriers

to blast schools and plazas

and hospitals, just like

the rehearsal in Gaza.

God stopped demanding

blood sacrifice long ago.

All trees can bear fruit

if we give them water

and use actual bullshit

to enrich the soil instead

of the slavering beings who

eagerly forfeit their humanity

for power and riches.

By dawns early light

The red-stained horizon

quickly brightens from

brass into blue and

the thrushes rush

into brave songs

proclaiming desire.

The hiss of the freeway

whispers a traffic report

into the sweet hush

of vernal-ish sunrise.

A dog barks at the 

garbage truck’s moan.

I’m not going to turn

on the television yet.

The newspapers that plop

onto the driveway before

the blinding sun peeks up

are enough. Quiet. Like books.

Bourbon Street

Her voice sounds

more whiskey-soaked

than lacquered

with daiquiris as it

floats out the doors

onto Bourbon Street.

Covering a forty-six

Year-old song by

The Pretenders:

Got brass in pocket

Got bottle, I’m gonna use it

Intention, I feel inventive

Gonna make you,

make you notice.

Yeah, how could I not?

Especially when you get

to the chorus that proclaims

I’m special, so special.

That’s a wry assertion

to make on Bourbon Street.

Where half the businesses

feature some kind of invocation

of voodoo. Voodoo chicken

and daiquiris, Free samples.

Jello shots, Voodoo pharmacy,

voodoo dispensary. Voodoo t-shirts.

I wonder, if they have

some kind of voodoo fix for

The blood thirsty, fist pumping

maniacs on Fox News?

Dolls and pins?

Beads are still hanging from

the wrought iron balconies,

the party lingers on long after

the embers of Fat Tuesday

have dwindled and cooled

into the ashes of Wednesday

And the night air is scented

with the vapors and spliffs

of spring break.

We know, we walk past

the posters and stickers

plastered with skulls,

the girls dressed in sparkly

micro minis and the bros

are already quite primed

for primo party time

In the French Quarter.

Another relic lyric from the sixties

blares from another doorway,

“Been a long time,

been a long time,

been a long lonely, lonely,

lonely, lonely, lonely time”

And now we are escorted

into a high ceilinged room 

with overhead fans and

white cotton table cloths.

Waiters in black suits and bow ties

filling goblets and answering

questions about menu selections

and wines or entrees with many

a Yes Ma’am or Yes Sir.

I want a Sazerac and oysters

if they have them raw

on the half shell.

Crab and crayfish, blackend

redfish, the traditional bounty

of the gulf and the delta.

Is that not what I should

ask for here? Perhaps not?

I haven’t forgotten the possibility

of immanent mortality that

drew us here in the first place.

We ride up St Charles Street,

under the wide oaks that cover

the street like an arbor.

Perhaps the same tunnel

that sheltered slavery’s whip

on naked black backs

and the fine horses hauling

carriages and ice wagons

In a time not yet lost

from memory and sorrow.

We bear that in mind

when we now pray, every day:

God, help us, to find our way,

to vanquish evil, in our hearts

and our actions, our consequences,

In this day, this hour, this moment.

Bourbon Street promises

a party, a time that you’ll

never forget or perhaps

never remember. It’s voodoo.

With beads and free drinks.

And songs that attempt

to resurrect yesterdays.