On Skeleg Michael

On Skeleg Michael

God,
what is this white martyrdom you've called me to?
One would never know the Skeleg Michael that I live on
unless they paid close attention.
At least the ancient Irish monks
gained fondness in distance
as people of the day were eventually drawn
to their beautiful crucible of rock, grass and wind.
There, the ancient monks had aloneness but not, in the end, anonymity.
Here, in this city of Los Angeles,
I experience an even purer and harsher form of aloneness.
Like an ocean full of water I can't drink,
this city of Los Angeles
is full of people whose company I can't enjoy,
whose bosom isn't home or anything close to it.
It is a city
of disjointed, competing buildings and fractious cultures,
and yet, it is a city, more than any other,
that still has enough liminal space in its margins
for me to walk with God
on an isle of my own identity.

And so my thoughts return to Skeleg Michael,
where I could wake every morning
and see God's unvarnished reflection
in the mist of waves atomized against the rocks.
Here, in this city,
I must squint to see God's reflection in a 7-11 strip mall.
On Skeleg Michael,
I could live in my uninterupted thoughts--
interupted only by the churning of physical survival
and a vague void within me for companionship.
Here, this city is always trying to intrude on my thoughts
with its unchangeable channel of advertisements
and glances that invite me
to join the fleeting, empty approval
of a vast, ephemeral community of people
who confront their aloneness
with disposable products and disposable thrills.

So I must count pleasant moments
that are afforded me by way of
fleeting moments of connection
with motley, unexpected people.
In a laugh with a co-worker,
in a polite interchange with a stranger,
in an occasional, wholesome glance exhanged with another,
in a pleasant conversation with a neighbor
whose name I won't long remember,
sparse moments of connection occur
with fellow city-dwellers
who hail from the other sides of vast cultural seas.

And yet,
even these fleeting moments of connection
are part of my white martyrdom.
On Skeleg Michael,
I would confront my void of human companionship
as a strong but vague urge
that hoisted itself into my consciousness
as an ever-blurring imagination
of being with people who were blurring in my memories.
In this city, however,
these fleeting moments of connection
intrude on my aloneness
with a tang and sharpness of unimagined realness,
as each moment of connection
reaches beyond the defenses
I have had to construct against the siren calls
and makes me confront
my unsatiated longing
for a genuine, lasting communion with others.
It is these fleeting moments of connection
that put the long moments of aloneness
into the sharpest relief.

Before I get too enamored of them,
immediately after allowing me
these fleeting moments of connection,
God, in my spirit,
reels me back to the Skeleg Michael
of my heart and mind,
wherein
I cannot hold onto these moments of connection
as being anything more than moments,
and, in the many long moments in between,
I must gather my bearings
and find peace walking the rocks alone with God.

Prayer in the Atom Smasher

Another poem,

Prayer in the Atom Smasher

In the wrecking room
that has become the space inside me,
I am convulsing with something
far deeper than mere displeasure.
No, the very nature of matter must change
and Time must be ripped a new ass

So I whip the fibers of my mind
until they are stripped of all inertia
and let the fury of my rage
rip away any remaining links
in my consciousness
to the realm of all that is banal
so that the Pnuemosphere
of God's spirit,
that is omnipresent yet invisible to Mundane Man,
will have room to traverse dimensions
and enter through
the oscillating membrane of my consciousness
and winnow the fabric of space-time
at its sub-atomic level

And just as the toxic acid
generated from this combustion
is about to cut the linings of my innards like glass
God leaps off of the pages of history and memory
and alters the nuerochemical matter within me
through an intimate miracle
of peace

And, in that moment,
I know, with a sentience that comes before knowing,
that God has altered space-time
and tilted history
just enough to let the fury
of this conation within me
rest
until the next time
I'm compelled to pray
in the atom smasher

Clearing

Another poem

Clearing

In desperation
I put my forehead onto the hard-packed ground
to let God plant a seed
beneath muted rage and concrete

It was in that moment that I looked up
and saw the haze
of joyless pleasure and ennui all around me
as a pall of sickly yellow
that made the sun overbearing
and made the city a suffocating hothouse
as the sun cast shadows across sullen faces
making their profiles pass darkly
over the concrete underfoot

It was in that moment
that I saw God's spirit
as a clearing being made in the haze around me
and I saw through the air
as it became fresh and crisp
as the sun shone straight from heaven
and onto the crusts of hardened hearts
and gave odd patches of grass and trees
--that push daily against the city concrete--
the purest hue of dazzling green

I was in that moment
that I felt the air on my lungs
as fresh hope
as God began to clear
my heart and my sinuses

Times Change

Another poem

Times Change

In these times
too many in the world
have become part of the Supercomputer
commonly known as
"the times"

wherein:
sexual titilation
is treated as a cocoa leaf--
something to be chewed on
to give a continuous nip of pleasure
to boost a dull day,
people seek freedom and individuality
consuming products
that erode contemplative space,
"Who's to say?"
is the philosphy
that can make an ignoramous sound wise,

When I tried explaining to them
that the "times"
were not necessarily changing for the better,
they simply deferred to the wisdom
of the supercomputer
(that is sorting it all out for them -- besides who am I anyway)
saying, "times change"

So, now,
all I can do
in these times
is to lie in my room
like Jonah
in the belly of a blighted age
and give birth
to a new vision of the world