If Pope Frances really wanted to be a saint, he'd renounce the church

Irene

A vindictive liar and a thief -

That's quite a tasty brew.

And she has cousins big and mean

Who'll break you right in two.

Hide the silver, lock the door

And never let in.

But kiss her ugly tattooed a--

If she comes back again.

9-24-13

 

Irene Duarte

Yesterday the rattle snake

Took off with 40 dollars,

Washed her clothes and got a ride,

And didn't spend a dime.

She gives the dike a rancid name,

But not through molestation.

An aging, tattooed indigent,

That sucks the blood of friends.

So deep in debt he cannot swim,

He nonetheless gets angry,

But dreads to be the object of

Another person's anger.

The government misjudgment gives

The undeserving money

Eternally, and gives the sick

A room and cigarettes.

Sneak and thief, insidious!

She's here to get the bucks

From his misbegotten love.

Her name's Irene Duarte.

6-9-13

 

St. Francis

If Francis wants to be a saint

(And someone said he does),

He'd see the church the way it is

Compared to what is was.

He'd take the blood soaked bible,

Throw it down and trounce it,

Take the ornamented church

And totally renounce it.

9-24-13

 

Liars

Waltzing with liars

And curtsey to thieves!

Don't look away until

Everyone leaves.

Syrupy sweet like

Puccini they talk.

Don't plant your heart.

It's a garden of chalk.

9-23-13

My House

I love my house – my static house -

Curios and books -

Lots of pictures on the walls

And shelves – and quiet music -

Four cats that sleep upon the chairs,

Tables, sofas – and

When he comes back tomorrow,

My house will have a soul.

9-23-13

 

The Elevator

An elevator floating in the sea!

So goes my love for you.

Thoughts about my poetry.

Continually the elevator rides

Up and down forever

On a sea of shifting tides.

Ambivalence! My poetry is grim.

Then suddenly it's perfect.

I am loved. Perhaps by him.

9-23-13

 

Faith

Simply knowing you are 67

Gradually makes you very old.

Little things, like mopping up the table

And keeping coffee off your manuscript

Seems about the most you can accomplish.

Nonetheless the verse keeps coming out.

The rhythms, if they ever were, are good.

You're vigilant for an identical.

A plethora of notions fill your head,

Though not as wanton as they were before.

Your friend of 16 years, and half your age,

Is coming home tomorrow. And he said

He'll publish too, and find you both success.

There are people older than you are.

Some are dead, and some are still alive.

And you have been obsessed with age

Since you were 41.

The miracle and madness yet prevail.

Since the day at 17 you tried

To kill yourself and nearly brought it off,

God – despite the beatings and the horror -

Like a sparrow – and he watched it fall -

Kept the faith. You have no faith at all.

9-23-13