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Poems

The Spring Book


This is the beginning of the book of the spring poem
This is the end of the old poem that has gone on so long, the old waiting,
this is the end of the old dreadful fears
It does not matter that the air is cold and the black earth barely grown
Barely grown, growing
It does not matter the plague passed from man to man
The air and the earth is ours
At the altar we have veiled everything in red, wrapped in scarlet, raised the painting of Christ lying dead, in his mother’s arms
These candles lit in brass candles, this sadness you reserve for yourself and the pain inside the world
Right now you are afraid of all that will not come
Right now you are looking at all that has been
Friends
Let us come together in the chalice of this mystery
And from these spring time nests hatch a new story.


Here, where the goose like a god skims upon the waters and in the joy and power sails down from the sky to take his place in rivers, here where the water laps through branches and earth and the island sits beneath the grey sky, where ancient oaks are in no hurry to put on their leaves and the tribal totems offer no promise but made their holes in earth for springtime, here is he land of the Golden Castle,
here is the march toward silence and in sorrow,
here on the green bud fragile from a march time tree and insomniac druids wandering so early in the morning, is the beginning of the mystery
The mystery, the mystery, the very thing you did not see. You did not see because there was no asking..

Hope is grey
It is not gay and golden
It is white like six a.m.
Like semen on our thighs after frantic loving
Hope white in the chill of air and the less than whisper of something else, the babies breath in the bombed out shelter
Hope is the fragile leaf from he earth,
it is almost gone in its coming, going going, going…
It is little as a bird
It is
Unstoppable
It is the very nature of the earth
 
Thank you. There was so much going on I wasn't able to post poems ntil now, but this seemed like a good time to do it.
 
No time to post poems like the present!


the end of you

Today among the roots in the brook where the water bubbled over there was the wet paper, hanging off the branches. I remembered you in a frozen time, unable to understand trash and beer cans in the beauty, and how when I said a body might turn up you could not believe it, did not know what to say, you were always that way, rich enough to travel made you rich enough to run, you were always as weak as that sodden paper.


I don’t even think of you
I want to, I had a love for you, and wrote poems about that bedroom, pages and pages about the clash and the boom of the things that went down there when I’d only lost a little and didn’t know how much more was to come,
back then we were innocent, only one thing,
then the two had happened, and you still had baby fat,
but the prison walls collapsed and came around and here you are, hanging around those bars.
You’re still the same


I wish you well while I am leaving, walk away, head for the wood
I wish you well and leave you with your ingratitude
While watching shadows in water I reflect on prison bars
Then turn my sights and words to other wars.


I dreamed of you and the time we had
I hardly knew I was remembering, and was surprised by the trickle of sap I made, running down my thigh,
a maple tree of love devoted to the syrup of not having you, of the spring and the summer and the fall and
the end of you
 
in the time of the passion of our lord

This is the season of our longing when we want for
what we dare not ask what
this is the season of the yellow flowers no one sees and the
purple blossoms small as sighs
this is the season of bluebells frustrated and sunken like blue balls
and the lilac gift, the magnolia blossom lifting from the tree before
its struck by cold
lift up the red veil,
tell the old story
and cover every frozen form in purple
this was the time they stripped every plant away and left us with
the palm to take it away the next day
when jesus was anointed and men disjointed howled and he said
let her alone

this is the time when men long to be held by other men.

more from lust than love I looked for you, old lover
i looked up your name but lost the spelling,
i fond your picture but wasn’t sure it was you
i stared and stared until I knew it didn’t matter,
the memory of our lust came to me at four in the morning
those afternoons when we strained together and your eyes were wide,
face red, while we clutched together and exploded like rockets
to laugh like children, lying in the slickness of us.

you got up, fine formed, and walked down the hall
and i heard you pissing in the bowl,
you came back
and were wrapped in my arms,
i long to wrap my arms about a man again
my long lover, my long lost lover my long lost lover
who lost himself
this is the time that more than fear we are near to desire
but desire has been lost
because we have lost ourselves
 
it may be. each set of poems reflects the season that's going on and so these poems probably will be pretty different.
 

A young priest makes love to her in a narrow bed on good friday

He is broad hard back and the sweat of life, a face serious with joy, sooth for soothing
strong neck to hold onto and hot, hot hungry kisses,
tenderness like spring shoots rising in those green eyes and a gentleness in calloused hands.
This is the man whose waist she clings to and the ass that like the body is pelted in black hair is… dimpled, as are the cheeks of his face, is dimpled so she laughs.
She laughs and rejoices at strong calves, how they both stop themselves from crying out.
Here is the holy place and they are wholly in this
The smell of his old cologne and the incense of all day church is holy.
The bit of stale sweat is holy.
Holy is the strength in his thighs, the thrill of him filling her,
the ache of him, thick inside of her where she had not been entered for so long,
stretching, stretching, bruising like a rose is bruised. She is a rose.

Kevin is the joy pushing deeper into her, moving steady like a locomotive
while he puts his mouth to throat.
She feels his nuzzle, his bite,
can’t strop stroking firm warm ass as it flexes,
can’t stop rejoicing in thighs as they pump her,
worries for the bed squeaking rapidly
for the bedstead slamming the wall before Kevin whispers,
“It’s empty. The room next door is empty.”

But her room is supposed to be empty too, where one sister is sleeping while the other is praying alone in the chapel on the night of the death of the lord.

Her little sister says the lord if coming

Oh, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter She is, oh God, she is coming.
She’s coming and he’s done this before, because as he is nuzzling her breasts,
he is buried
he is burying his face in her body, she is rising on the waves, she is rising thighs hold, crushing a a young priest’s body, this is given up for you.
Digging deeper, pressing deeper, he is given up for you, fucking,
screwing, cock like crucifixion, given up for you

Kevin shouts and stops himself from shouting.
lifts his head and closes eyes, the priest praying a new type of prayer—body jerking, shaking with the rapture of your transubstantiation, clench your teeth and hold in the Gloria while you fill her.
 

Adrian mcgill

I am trying to get back to you,
I mean I am praying you come back to me,
someway,
over the Ethernet, over the interweb,
in an email,
in my inbox,
in my bed,
skinny, big eyed, bad toothed,
eager,
my lover,
who came to me on a stolen bicycle with wobbly wheels,
failed in life and fallen into another one,
you don’t know how important you were to me,
your mother to me,
your ass to me,
your touch,
your love,
your… ah friendship

you told me so much and there was so much I did not ask,
and I told you I loved you and you told me you loved me
and we knew love had many faces,
but you were something on the wind,
unsettled, drifting,
like so many men,
and so in time and
madness
you passed from me.



To the old lover

I am grateful you returned
Now, with a smile I’ve learned
I wasn’t missing shit when you were gone


To the old lover II

You were always aspirational
And ever unoriginal
You only wanted what people told you that you should
You were always slyly thinking I was up to no good,
and I was,
when I said spike your dad’s drink
You wanted the new kitchen sink your brother and his wife
bought at menards
I only wanted you to think yourself out of this same old rabbit hole

And I am grateful you returned
Now, with a smile I’ve learned
I wasn’t missing shit when you were gone


To the old lover III

I am the sour smell you wash away between your legs
the cigarettes still smoke
I am the funky armpit sweat on your pillow.
i of course am almighty
and like any faithful devotee eventually,
though once you ran you came back to my altar.
You discovered long after you left that you could not leave.
Burn all your paper men.
Offer up your fleshy children


And I am grateful you returned
Now, with a smile I’ve learned
I wasn’t missing shit when you were gone
 

Sex in the time of plague

i.

I heard that those who live in anxiety can bear the anxious time a little better
When people say we’ve made it and we blink around
I remind them and myself, we haven’t made it yet.
Thirty thousand bodies in a pit, and old king disease
Plague time in America,

i had sex for the first time in weeks,
had it inexhaustibly, two men rode well into the morning,
on sunday morning when I coughed because of cigarettes, I wondered if I’d paid the mortal price then knew we always pay to live and I would do it again,
do it again to feel their need,
do it again to twist my limbs and and spill my seed
and feel yours slick across me,
feel your kisses on my breasts,
plague time in America, plague time in America,
and the world lies down at rest.


No bells rang at easter for jesus
I turned on Youtube and some clever fuck started talking,
and I turned him off.
If the church bells don’t ring, why should you?
Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
I think things will have to change, but I’ve been waiting on things to change for years.
Mother Earth she waited too and then, impassively, she rolled out her destroyer
and this angel does not stop at first borns

I hear that sniffles are the first thing, the old will die before the young, use my mother and father like canaries in a coal mine, call to see if they’re alive to decide if I will be
But none of this matters,
there is a story about a man who went to bed with a cough and woke up dead,
went to bed and coughed, that’s what I said.
And covid is the loneliest number.
Every morning’s message from my mother
is like the dove returning to the ark

We park our asses down in the same old certainty that none of this will happen to us, none of this will happen to us, nothing ever happens to us. Our mayor went off to be president, but he had to leave to do it, and in the end he didn’t make it,
nothing happens to us. But then thirty thousand dead, thirty thousand dead and in pits and yet….. it hasn’t happened to us. It hasn’t happned to us yet. So far it all goes off stage like a good greek tragedy.
Keep it good and keep it greek
and keep it far away.

They have taped arrows in the grocery store, telling us where to go,
there are arrows in the store and they don’t sell individual donuts anymore,
and that’s how you know we’re in a tragedy.

I don’t mask my face, I don’t mask my face, except for the smile as if a little bit of joy and fearlessness will gut us through this, and in the end of what is us, will I be included? I dance over taped lines, grouse on the price of wine,
the sun shines bright, the sky deep blue in plague time
 
Thank you Matt. I thought I would write a different sort of spring time poem, but this is the spring we had, so this is what came out. There will be more lockdown angst tomorrow night.
 
sex in time of plague

ii.

This is not lockdown this is luxury. When I hear of lockdown, I cannot believe it is about me. I wake up several times a day, get up and I say I think I’ll read, I think I’ll rewrite a poem. I think i’ll walk in the parks, there aren’t enough people for it to matter. The water goes from blue to grey to brown to blue like steel again. A dragon’s coiling all around the world, slowly, slowly, like something from the book of revelation, seven heads and seven crowns and we dodge the tips before they touch us.
This cough comes back again and every cough is plague, and every heat is fever, every sneeze is a momentary sign of the end, but that is the price you pay for the luxury of the day,
when you wake up and realize you didn’t want to go back to that job anyway.
For the peace of grocery lines where wino’s breath isn’t breathing down your neck, for the new found courtesy you find in empty street and silent courtyards

I fuck my mattress every day and wish that I could find my lover

Lockdown.
The real thing is for you who were so inarticulate you could never say thank you, so used to things you could not bet past entitlement even when you were in shackles and grey. Once, when you were young and I was young and your Indian body still water fat, we fucked in a hut by the sea, our bodies made fire shapes, you and me, shadows on the walls in the night, before they took you away, before the dim light of Chicago all day led you back to michigan and meth and a jail sentence, and that is true lockdown.
Everyone around here knows that.

Before you left, the other one who came after you, the few times he was here, so thin a thing I could feel his hip bone from a mile away, he told me stories of how broken he was and I loved him as much as you can love a ruined man. I haven’t heard from my sometimes boyfriend in over a month, no message written back. I wonder if he’s dead now, but wonder with as much wonder as I can. The last time I sent him a message it said,
“you are a broken man… but so is everybody else.”

The last time I made love I rose up like a king. I got up in the morning like someone on a commercial, with the sun in my room and coffee on my lips. I felt loved. I felt cherished, I felt civilized.
Every other morning sense, rising is a struggle, casting from my head every little worry, .and wiping sleep from my eyes, a cough from my throat, stumbling to the toilet too early or making it before its too late, yawning.
morning is a minor struggle, this house is never clean enough,
clean like it should be,
get these thoughts down like they should be,
chronicle it all before the walls fall.
I sit at my altar without words,
the words spun themselves out and I began to murmur things I don’t believe.
Now in silence, sit until the right things come.
light a candle, burn the incense that smells like armpits of the earth,
the ball fragrance of the green god, having nothing to offer,
offer it all up and receive God’s naked grace.
 
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