Juking on Luke 15
"This fellow," they said, "welcomes sinners and eats with them!"

the three children settled at the table
a monstrous feast lay before their eager hands
ham and potatoes and peas all happily sporting their colors
grace was said with a resounding "AMEN"

she watched the ants ravage the remains
of the meagerly meal
she consecrated
chanting with the growls in her stomach

McDonalds was lined with itinerant beggars
drawn by the magical division of potatoes into finger-fries
the multiplication of the cow's scant flesh into triple-patties galore
all into a sustenance that lingered beyond taste

"Rejoice with me!" he cries, "I have found my lost sheep."

"In the same way, I tell you, there is joy among the angels of God
over one sinner who repents."

sheep by truckloads, in vans, endless jumble of transports
herds of excited faces
repenting, "It is me!" "IT IS ME!"

after the fairy tale and the laughter of monsters
the beardless youth tugged at his mother's dress
"Why do we say Our Father?" he shyly requested
Ah! the moon shone brightly till the dawn.

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Juking on Luke 21
“Take care that you are not misled,” (Luke 21)
beware the bus driver who collects for salvation
watch the left hand of the one-legged preacher
stoop not to support the arm of the craggy grandmother
“For many will come claiming my name, and saying ...”

Burma Shave out-shaves them all!
Pepsi is the real thing!
The Yankees are Number One!
We try harder!

“Do not follow them” is the counsel
Trust not thy brother or sister mother or child
The Spirit leaves the dead to bury the dead
Only a corpse is sign-post on The Way
“But not a hair of your head shall be lost.”
a chilling consolation to the army of bald men
even newborns cannot be tricked by this sleight of hand
Madison Avenue lusted for the copyright to the jingle

“For there will be great distress in the land and
a terrible judgment upon this people!”

despair at the curbstone over the last forever brown bag
flailing anger at the split fingernail
all the children were born with green eyes
The TV outage lasted for four hours: no Superbowl!

“I tell you this: the present generation …”
has found “IT!”

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Juking on Matthew 27:46
at the turn of the corner i caught the gnarled body
on the lamp post gurgling in intoxicated tongue
"Eli,Eli,lama sabachthani?"

the soap fresh face of the hooded monk
swung golden fumes to quench the stink,
while fraters in swishing dresses broke flat bread
in soundless mockery of the broken bones in his side

she turned to me in a whip of anger
froth amused itself on her bubbling words
"You promised me!" and again "You promised me!"
I laced my shoes and forgot my handkerchief as the clock chimed,
my time was up.

not realizing that he was but a child
his arms failed and shocked his heart
as he battled to grab the coat-sleeve
of the woman plunging to her death in his bed.

as the bodies were counted
with marks appropriately placed on the ledger
the guard stifled a yawn
as he stoked the ovens for their repast.

in dutiful disarray the garden exposed itself
flouting the offspring of wild seeds
and airborne messengers of late summer

at the bus stop the children were arranged in proper lines
not knowing their destiny
while parents disappeared in unmarked cars
and left indecipherable messages on bloodstained papers.

But the others said, “Let us seeif Elijah will come and save him.”

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An Editorial Never to be Printed
they burned witches in Boston
Cotton Mather embraced himself in prayer
praying for their soul's salvation
with words drawn from the scabbard
of wild men's yearnings

i stood at that spot in years gone by
placing my feet upon the shadows of his footprints
and recited his prayers
but this time they were for him, alone

when the subway noisily awakens the avenue
the screeching lamentations of burning tongues
fade into the overwhelming smiles of outsized billboards
advertising new slogans with which to bait the witches

Boston is dead and has died too many times
after resurrections magically staged by Madison Avenue
but the ardour of the witch hunters is yet requited
as guide books are spewed in Sunday additions
to the Sports Section and tacked onto churchly bulletins

take fear you witches and seeds of the Black Rose
the sweet rain which has fallen to nourish you
has raised the curse of the Crystal Knight
who is relentless in pursuit of the Holy Grail
which is stained with your Ancient Blood

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Franciscan Monks, Indiana: Many Moons Agothey move slowly by each other's shadows

rushing their prayers towards the morning light
machines of dutifulness
cracking out codes from ancient scripts

as they assemble at their appointed stations
whorls of incense bind them together
as common breaths are startled by chants
of "Awake! Awake! the Son has arisen!"

in the midst of what dawn exposes as splendor
the stealth of ages
residing in golden memory and bejeweled hopes
presents itself in the mockery of saltless bread

will they remain forever but each other's shadows?
craving a sunlight which sets in a foreign land
calling forth a voice which speaks a strange tongue

will they remain ... are they still there?

i left 20 years ago, a deaf and dumb
cripple, seeking a cure, a touch of a hem

as i watch other shadows
on sunless mornings i wonderwho hears the chant
"Awake! Awake!"


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The Hot Spot
it was, they said, the right spot
sit here, stand there, kneel here
with thick calluses on my knees
thickened calves made strong
through walking the outside Stations
I savored the comfort of their words

who is youth to say, "Is this it?"
"Is this really all?"
“I want more!”
when the wizened and the wizardly
shake their heads and flail their arms
admonishing, "This is it!" "Enough! Be satisfied!"

the calluses I now bear
cannot be scraped by sharpened knives
for they reside within at that spot
which no monastic map plots

twenty years of stumbling
through alleys and across raging highways
has left me lean and clean of tooth

no fat monk have I become
in transvestite garb and purple comfort
no mastery of the ancient tongue is mine
no grave with cultivated lilies is reserved for me

the face I now bear
is ugly with the scars of lashes meted out in the public square
etched by private pains only lovers share

the wines of the world have long gone to vinegar
the clothes I wear no longer drape my fears
I have stood in endless lines with the lost
found that the striking of the clock indicts not me

I have played the game from many hands
cursed my luck in foreign tongues
welcomed the morning with farts and groans
lied to many as I sought another truth

the day breaks most often as my dog barks
or my kid walks into my room, "Dad, are you awake?"
I swing my leg of lead onto the rug
rub the sleep of lives now past
and celebrate the spot wherein I awake

it is the right spot

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Who Was She?
they crushed the flowers atop her grave
heaved clods of dirt against her face
with the strength of their anger and their hate
they stomped the ground, embracing her with their curses

who was she that inspired such rages
who called forth tremors from behind the heart
who shook them so and tore them apart?

was she mother, sister, daughter or lover
what role did she play, what song had she sung
what power did she possess while under their sun?

i watched the scene and rushed to ask but their lips were rock
their wild eyes focused behind my head

i watched the snow cover their tracks
lay a glistening blanket over her patch,
with such vengeance spread on her plot
i wondered if grass would grow in the Spring

one day i happened back that way
caught a young nun at her grave
i tapped her arm, was startled by her trembling shout,
"NO! Not me. I will not raise her from the dead!"

i stood there in muted witness to her fear
calculated that no grass had sprouted anywhere
what kind of person could she have been
to draw forth such ugliness from everyone?

only on a distant day at a moment far away
did i remember why I had first gone there
someone in the street had proclaimed,

"The witch is dead!
The mirror is broken!"

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