family lost its roof and had to sleep beneath a street
of stars. I never imagined pale faced poor till then, so
I gathered the Nuyorican shoe shine boys on the block,
told them they best pray up better days for redheaded
Leroy with Saint Patty’s name, then convinced them
to drop a quarter in a cup to buy the life line checker
set. when somebody bought the desk lamp the look
in the Irish mother’s eyes was like an Angel came by
saying do not be afraid you will be paid with scanty
Spanish speaking cash, instead of city dust. on that
day, I swear the multicolored poor on the block
could not have loved each other more with the very
simple kindness the rest of the world did not care
to give.
[Breakfast]
she starts the day listening to the
news in the tiny kitchen of a two
room apartment, the motions of
her hand stirring Oatmeal her kids
will eat for breakfast before walking a
long way to school in the company
of the morning wind. without thinking
about her misery she manages to say a
little pray to the Mother of Peace to
request mercy for the ladies on the
block who look into the faces of their
children every day hoping they will know
years of perfect life. when you look deeply
into her eyes you will find in them something
no one on the block can completely give, a thing
in her that never fades, an ancient presence like
the stones on the empty lot about to speak, the
clouds crowning school children’s heads, or Angel’s
come to earth for play—the simple miracle of love.
[Evening Prayer]
in the wilderness of the soul, God is present.
in human imperfection, God is present.
in the mystery of consciousness, God is present.
in the forgiveness of things, God is present.
in the kind gesture of welcoming love, God is present.
in the simplicity of childish things, God is present.
in the incurable laughter of being, God is present.
in misery turned hope, God is present.
If not here, then nowhere.
[The Return]
I don’t understand a thing about yesterday
though it must be around somewhere the
eye simply cannot see. sometimes I wonder
if it will catch up to me with a strong rain, reach
out from a dim place in the middle of the night insisting
on talking about domestic affairs, or have me simply sit in
a chair to listen to bygone events like they were happening
fresh over again. I don’t understand a thing about the way
yesterday takes on light to appear with missing friends risen
again who slowly walk up a road broadening in my mind where
they meet me like it’s the first time. I don’t understand why
nearly everything swallowed by yesterday is nearly forgotten,
like the six transistor radio that fit in a pocket, the cheap
wine kids drank to ritually spew, the wide-eyed mornings
with rice soup eaten before long walks to the English only
school, the box full of books about other worlds that vanished
into air, and the small good things that helped our captive
time leak dreams. I quit counting yesterday, turned away from
its disappearing act, and vowed to walk like Tito’s blind uncle
tapping my way around the forward turning hands of the clock
toward what the future brings. who knows I may well understand
yesterday and all the faulty things it stores coming finally unmasked
for me.
[9/11]
how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks,
months, years ago did the world on a Tuesday
morning bleed? how many remember the night before
everything changed by showing us what loathed
human flesh can become? Will the multiplying death
piled on many mountains now of splintered bones ever
bring us peace? we are up early with our grief talking
of these things in a world distorted by crooked views
of God and the innocent who were killed. today, we
will go to the places where hell appeared with black
flowers to hear prayers calling for blessings and the
fullness
