THE COMPOSITION OF TEARS

At your grave I shed 10,000 tears

Letting each fall into a small rose colored bottle

Half of these I pour onto your coffin

They become the river you will sail home on

The other half I pour onto a tray of silver

Under the bright midday sun they evaporate

Leaving only their salt white essence

With this talcum I powder myself in sorrow and sun light,

 I recall the day of your birth and mourn for you

Roses and tear drops        Roses and blood drops

We lower you into red cold clay

100 sad eyes and the bleeding heart of Jesus

RIGHT FOOT INTO WINGS

My worst curse - immobility.

Crutches and no car for six weeks.

The basement writing room has

become a sensory deprivation chamber.

Even my pain medication haunts me -

midgets in white doctors’ jackets chasing

me with whips offering me more pills.

All I can do is - hop hop hop.

“You needed this.” Elaine tells me.

“A divine light will appear, a voice in

the night, an angel will come, you’ll be

forever changed.  You want to change

don’t you? You could use a little changing

you know. Think transubstantiation’s easy?

Huh? Do you? How about making the move

from caterpillar to butterfly? Think that’s

so easy? Stop complaining and be glad

you have one good foot.”

No pity down here in the deprivation chamber.

Shut up and take it like a man.

Life’s a trash can – deal with it.

Alone in the basement – hop hop hop.

Entertaining pain medication dwarfs – hop hop hop.

Writing fiction only a fleeting idea – hop hop hop.

Six weeks until transubstantiation lift off.

            Fly to Mexico amidst clouds of Monarchs.

            Butterfly wings better then any right foot.

ODD

They can’t hear it.

They don’t listen to leaves

in the moon light. The mystical

whisper of branches rubbing.

Funny what happens to a life

when trees start talking to you.

When you hear the voices of your

garden.