A Comedy and Degree (poems)

Above

You sir, are not Dante.
-Jeffrey

It's upsetting to speak of heaven.

Why is it so upsetting?

Well, out of the three heavens--

Out of the three heavens
the one I have the hardest time talking about
is writing.
Even when I write a poem I eventually don't like
I'm glad I wrote it.
So far that's all I know.

Then there is heaven unseen.
The marvel of clouded images and gilded things,
I think this heaven leads most people Below.

What is the third heaven?

This room, right now.
Then, my walk home
and all that is outside is In Between
and Below.
Tomorrow I'll know more.


In Between

My landscape is blemished.
Transgressions are piles
of cairns--testimonials--
silent in their reproach.

Perhaps I'm in between
honesty and deceit,
I'm stagnation
and it's inescapable.

Climb a mountain, but
feel cratered like carcass
embedded in earth
all the while living.


Below

A small blade of moonlight slices open my eyes
and rests smooth like sand on my arm.
Everyone looks pale under this illumination;
but, my hand is half ghost.

I do not see the architect of post-Troy.
No lions, leopards, wolves--
Just a white room. Brought clear through fluorescent bulbs,
the worst kind of brightness.

The wind outside catches me in cold,
blows the foliage in fervent cyclones of fire.
Beyond those, the man in tattered blue sweats,
and the hunch,
scribbles Praise Him on guard rails again.
As I approach, church bells sound noon.

They rot without falling.
I am rot. I fell here.