holy tuesday (lepidopterist)

1. it begins here: you arrayed in splendour, and me mocking 
2. you, offering a crown of thorns; i am admittedly heavy-handed
3. as we walk together – the whipping post, the whipping boy,
4. the whip whistles and air seeps through weeping lips
5. as you wear your pain like a robe, purpled and larger than life
6. grasping at the edges of why you even bother anymore
7. with the thud and ping of hammer and nail and what are we building
8. with nary a chance and barely a plan, and here you are gambling
9. it’s all on us after too much too drink, or too little, this emptied vessel 
10. pinned against my memory like a butterfly; so beautiful, these scars.

holy monday

I hope to avoid your judgment

though I acknowledge your right to do so.

Judge me, I mean.

Take whatever instrument is at hand

and drive out everything I have coveted

with the wrong intention, everything

I’m willing to sell for less than its worth,

everything that demands to be worshipped.

Then let me rest.

                            This cleansing

is so much more work than I expected.

If I only knew how to surrender.

Instead, my hands are dry and cracked,

sweat stings my shuttered eyes,

my muscles ache and stiffen.

It is morning or it is evening

and I sit at the table writing to you.

It is the only way I know

to measure my voice against all the shouting.

On the table, a bowl of figs,

a glass of wine, sheaves of paper,

bread. Meager fare, I admit,

but what can I do?

It’s all I can offer at these wages.

palm sunday

i feel like i’m walking to my death

I am walking to my death

why all this celebration?

we must celebrate the end of all things

there are so many things still need doing

it’s been a long day

why am i surrounded by strangers

i must find my family

all my tomorrows are too loud

i’m so very tired

this doesn’t feel like victory

and what does victory look like

maybe i don’t really have a pure heart

i’m so easily deceived

one day all will be revealed

all will be well

                       all will be well

(the way home)

The way home

is mostly silence.

The tires hum,

something rattles.

I measure

each breath –

I use honest weights:

past betrayals,

future intentions,

promises

laden with time.

How many doors

do we need to open

before we embrace

forgiveness?

Let’s go upstairs –

have the necessary

conversations;

then fall asleep

in my arms.

(it's times like these)

it's times like these
that i wish
i had taken the time
to memorize poems

to be able
to use their words
and steal
into your bed.