Heartbreak at Apartment B

She left me with the liquor cabinet

when she stopped by the apartment

to fetch the things she left behind.

I'll be back on Monday for the rest,

she said, and I spent the weekend

emptying out my sadness into bottles

and then emptying out the bottles.

The sorrow was always mine, my

dear, but you can keep the glass.

Purgatorio

I didn't feel so bad when

I awoke inside that whale-tomb
fish's stomach. Maybe You could

leave me be until 
I've caught up on my deficit--

I'm three days behind already.

Those Whom He Predestined, He Also Called

I waited for you to take my soul

(but you never came to claim me)

so I set about to lose it,

thinking you would find me

littered on the sidewalk,

(as though I were some

discarded label fading brown)

pick me up and take me home.

But I guess you never

passed that way. Or you

didn't feel responsible.

I laid upon that sidewalk,

baking in the sun until the

ink faded and you could

barely read the words

that had been bleached

away in patient waiting:

“I have no man, when

the water is troubled,

to put me in the pool.”

Soon, when this body fails, and

you find it littered in the earth,

I pray you'll have the decency,

if not to take me home, to

pick me up and throw me out.

Lament for the Western Pennsylvania Steel Industry

On autumn morns the mist curls up

from Eastvale hills in Beaver vale

as though it were the trees ablaze

in the spirit of revival:

a vigil burning on the mountainside,

unconsumed anticipation of a time when

the Spirit will move among the trees and

lay them bare like the fires once

descending from the heavens.

The trees cry out Return! 
And we cry too--
but cry to whom?

To Jesus Christ? Or to Carnegie?

Or to the iron sleeping in perdition there?

One day these trees will consummate:

return to dust, and rise again from holy ash

in the spirit of the Industrial Resurrection.

And When They Came, They Received Every Man a Penny

Lord I'll sin for you

as though I were a Magdalén—

I don't love you enough already.

But don't forgive me yet:

I'm too young to sing hosanna.

There's still strength left

in these loins, so I'll sin

until these burns turn into

dust and this sinew into ashes.

Then I'll cling so sweetly

to you. I'll baptize

your feet with tears

of deprecation, that

perfume I couldn't

muster when I was

sure I didn't need you.

And when you finally

forgive me, Lord,

I'll love you harder

than I did before

(Until I sin again)

Lord, I Believe (Help My Unbelief)

If your Kingdom is a mustard seed

then feel free to take Your time—

for weeds make haste, flowers tarry
and I don't think I could trust You if
You came on me in power.

This Our Son Is Stubborn and Rebellious

If I'm your son, where are my lashes?

You know I'm only sinning for attention,

so please don't spare the rod.

Maybe You could drive me mad—

hunched-back, grass-eating,

wanderer of the wilderness—

until at last I cling, 
crying, to Your knees:

I'll never sin again.

Memories of an Absent Cousin; or, Don't Cry, It's Just a Joke

I imagine that your eyebrows

crept across your forehead,

eyelids creeping after

and pupils dilating due to

rays of realization.

Your malleable little lips bent

beneath the heat of joy, 
a beaten bow by humor's hammer

holding up your dimples.

And you shook with the sheer force

of the shenanigan until you couldn't

hold it back, your breath bursting

from your lungs, lips leaking air
as though you were a loose balloon.

It's a Matter of Principle

I'm afraid that if I speak, you will observe

me, collapsing my soul on one point,

no longer roaming into every possibility,

but forced into whatever position you

demand in making your reply, finite and

static before your analyzing ears.

I'd rather sit here in uncertainty

thinking dead-and-alive thoughts at

299,792,458 m/s than look you in

the eyes and hold you with my gaze.

So I hope that you'll forgive me when

I pretend I haven't noticed you, because

I'm a fan of awkward superpositions—

I wouldn't want to collapse you either.

Unconditional Lust

I wouldn't mind it if you burrowed deep

into my heart and gnawed your way through

so that when someone comes along to

pluck it, they'll find that it's been ruined

by the worm who used to live there.

(But I'd sure as hell resent you for it)

Thirty-Nine Lashes

Maybe Jesus wept because he knew

he was raising Lazarus to sin again,

a mock resurrection symbolizing

realities yet unripe, a vine

to bear fruit at Passover,

and again and again

until the end of the age.

And did the Lord weep

when he conceived you, Christ,

knowing all the sin

that we would yet conceive?

Did it break his heart

to tear into your flesh

with all the wrath stored up

for someone else? For Lazarus?

Mary? Martha? Myself?

No wonder you wept and

prayed the cup to pass.

You were a prince after all,

and it's usually the prince

who needs a whipping boy

and not the other way around.

Don't get me wrong,

but did it ever work

to see a friend whipped instead?

So maybe you could whip me too.

(But only just a little)

Whispers to a Sleeping Grandfather

Do you remember how you used to shake

the blood out of my fingers, nearly breaking

them whenever you would shake my hand?

And how you used to wink at me with both

your eyes, first your left and then your right,

as though your eyelids marched in place?

You shook my hand that way in the hospital,

but you didn't wink, and you called me by my

brother's name. Preacher-man laid his hands

on you, and I cursed him under my breath.

I reckon if I see that preacher,

maybe I'll just wink at him.

Or maybe I'll just shake his hand.

I Was Naked, So I Hid

I am not a man that

I may stand before you,

but a scarecrow, a beast

of hay not even fit to fill

your footstool, ready to

burn at any moment.

Hoping to burn, actually,

to blaze up in an instant

and instantly forget

the guilt of my iniquity.

I don't want you to leap

into the furnace and

be singed yourself instead,

your flesh dripping from

your melting bones.

Why even ask?

The wicked deserve no grace,

and I am chief among them.

Why not be raked over the coals

and blaze away in a stench as

foul as the deeds that I commit?

And as I weep over

my brokenness, Lord,

I wonder if you weep

as much as I do—

or maybe not at all.

Curse God and Die

Grace is violent, but God is not a bully

pinning you to the ground and spitting

into your openly defiant mouth.

Oh He'll pin you down,

(I guarantee it)

but to hold you as you thrash about

in fits of sinful epilepsy.

So blame God,

(It is His fault)

but don't curse Him—

you just might bite your tongue.