|
Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover art by poet
•
|
Pastor Pete
To think that you wore the cloak
of God. And I, a child, walked to you
so confidently and with poise,
put out the candles like a good acolyte.
All this time, you lied to all of them.
Right to their faces, while I stood
in my robes before you, lighting candles.
If I could go back, I would walk over
and light your pressed robes afire.
I would laugh like Jezebel as you burned,
there, in the nave of the Church,
righteously before stained glass
and the Holy Ghost.
-
T-The G-Garden of E-E-Even
When you left, I thought
that you must have
forgotten your keys and that
you would be back for them.
It has been almost a year now.
What do I do with these humid hours?
Why do I sit here on the greenhouse floor
still staring at the door,
expecting the handle to turn,
for you to come in as the br e e ze
you had so many times before?
In a fugue of fear and pain, the heat
of a Texas sun pressed pink, a brand fleshed
against your neck. Flinging off your heels,
you saw me sitting in grandma’s rattan chair
waiting for you,
as if it were just another
day where we would share
in that studio of lilies and lotuses, those places
always drawn with ordinary things: the weather
of mud-daubers over a garden, how often
seasons move quickly out from under us,
their fireflies bursting secrets and
then disappearing,
again.
Flashes of light just a handful away.
|
Jorene, 1991
I remember walking with her
along the beach in the morning,
the smell of ocean water.
Laguna Beach. 1991.
Right before it all ended.
Before we moved back to Dallas
and they called it quits.
We were still in California.
They had gotten in a fight
and as some form of punishment, (to him)
mom took us to a super sheesh hotel
in Laguna Beach. We walked through sandy
seaside markets: I got a scarf and a crystal necklace.
When I look at that weekend now, I see that
it was not normal. The steep positioning
of a rental car
and its damned parking brake.
Conch. Sharp lava rock beaches.
Salt. Mom. Jeremy. Oh Jesus,
I think I can taste the taffy.
•
Pianos Falling Into Canyons
Why does respect stop when potentiality ends?
Are they contingent upon one another?
You do this for me and I will give you
the attention I think you crave?
Is it possible that you fell into your own trap?
That your own unwillingness to actually make
a workable plan is a reason why you cannot
proceed as desired? Does that hurt?
That knowing?
I am starting to see life as a series of good
and bad choices:
opportunities to learn and opportunities
to teach.
But in this, there are some that fall like tombs
over the plateau of reason; rhetorical insults
that resonate like falling pianos into the gorges
of all of our lost memories.
Unforgivable melodies.
-
Jon Lotus © 2020
|
