Jesus Calling

The night before
She stands inside
The bulging, burgeoning 
Closet.

What will I be tomorrow?
Pink and pearls?
Grey and gold?
 
Will she dress
To impress
          or
To cover?

There is always
               so
Much
To cover.

Morning rises.
Shower not bath
Never bath
To sit so
         still
       so
         long
In water
       so
         hot
With time, 
           Well,
No. Oh, no. Just
                 No.

Not when there is
The Mirror
To be faced
The Mirror
Whose price inflates
Whose toll increases 
With every passing year.

To lift the droop
Suspend the sag
To fill the sallow hollows
That darken and deepen
With every lie

To plump the lips
Worn out
Worn thin
By each apology 
               never made
By every promise 
               forgotten

To span the crevasse
The ever-widening crevasse
Between who she 
                Is
And who she
           Claims
To be.


There is no pink
Light enough
There is no ink
Dark enough
To fill the expanse
Of that limitless
                  Void.

Still she tries.
Each morning she
                 tries.

Spackling the wrinkles
With new and heavier
                    Layers 
Of hypocrisy,
Watching it settle 
Into the lines
Like fine French
                arsenic
Feeding flesh to bone.

"You still got it, Sister!"

She winks at the glass that
                           withers
Beneath her gaze.
Then gathering the blackened
                            bits
Of her soul into a green velvet bag, 
She slithers behind the latest
Luxury wheel, turning the key,
Shaking her head,
"Late again".

Knowing 
        He
Waits
Obvious and open
Atop her slick office desk
Flayed and splayed,
                  Calling
Unheeded 
Unheard
       Forsaken.








A Phoenix Blue

How many times we have
                      risen
from the ashes
of some ruined
               dream
of some broken
               promise
of some word
            unspoken
some deed
         undone.

How many.

If I could
          draw
with other than the
words that so often fail me,
If I could
          paint
with other than the
ink that bleeds even here, even
                               now,
I would
       paint
            Her.

I would paint
             The Phoenix
Blue
that is
       Us.

Her wings are
             indigo
lemniscates.

Without beginning
without ending
they flow,
vast and heavy
              yet
light and clear,
from the steady cerulean
flame
that is her body.

Compact and strong
that body is,
diamond hard
             yet
downy soft,
Newborn
Everlasting.

Its supple spine
                extends
to a tail of limitless
measure that
trembles and falls,
quavers and drops
in perfect time with
those phospherant wings
like the quavering vibrato
of a coloratura just before the
                                shattering.

But silent.
So silent.

Not a sound rises
from wing or tail
as she cuts the smoke-filled
air of her latest,
most pain-filled
                Death.

Until
       Until

High aloft she opens her mouth,
that crystal-sharp edge of her
                              luminous
face, that has
withheld
guarded
swallowed
so much
so many
for all these
             endless
lifetimes.

But no more.

No More.

For this time,
from these ashes,
she rises full-voiced
sure and strong and
                   pure.

And the song she sings
is Ours and Ours alone,
a deafening silence 
to all other ears.

To us she calls
as never before,
her throaty cry
breathless, broken,
ragged from the
raging flames, but
certain, strong, and
                    true.

A song
of roads not taken
of paths not chosen
of endings
          Overcome.

A song of Love.
A song of Life.
A song of Hope.

Our Song
        Forever
Thanks to
          You.

The Spot

 

Dead
Blind
A zone without range
Empty
Void

We cross it each morning
Cursing and laughing
We wait
Calmly
Patiently
For life to 
Beat
    again

And it does
           Always
it does

But 
   there are 
            times
Other times

The underworld 
              Arises 
without warning

Signals disappear
Signs are misconstrued
Codes long broken become
Impenetrable

And we are 
          Lost

Until

From the left
A light
A faint
       Blue
Pulse

A dichrotic throb
As though 
         doubling
Might make the difference

And so it does
So 
  something
does

And the impasse
Dissolves
     Fades
         Passes
into memory

Becoming nothing 
                more 
than the shimmering penumbra
of a once
         intractable
Pain


©sdrogers 20 june 2015




 






At the End of the Day

a hackneyed
     trite
        bromidic
phrase
we are become
we are become
we are 
      be
come

but, oh
shame 
     on you
shame on you
shame 
     on you

for making me 
believe
for working so 
hard
at making me
believe

for being
         such 
A Good Liar

your body 
full of 
Old Man Strength
your words 
full of 
Young Man Charm

yes
shame shame shame
on
  you, Papi

you oh so Graven
image

my Death lies too
beyond that line
across that hill
down that road you
ride
to 
  ward 
      me

never so close
never so far
            away

my Death rises
flat head hooded 
Siddhartha's Cobra 
an evanculous embrace
cooing me close with the 
crook of each bend

my Death is
kinder than you

it has promised
Nothing
and shall deliver
All

just as it did
in Dachau
when your fingers 
closed 
so lovingly
so cravenly
around my
         throat

At the End of the Day
At the End of the Day
At the
      End
of the
Day 


 






Ghost Stories

Pocketknife picking at the sideways
8. Though mine is not. So. So, the
blood pricks vertically, that is up
and down, running the length like 
tears from a hollow blue eye. Apollo never fails me. In his musical aspect at least. As the god of fortune, of prophecy. Not
so much. No, not so much at all. But in this, in this, this music. Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For how could I have continued, one

rickety foot in front of the other, as it were, along the bone- spiked back of what was left of life, without this. This Music.
With these bobbles in the dark. Anything is possible. Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even that is possible.
The bodies of small men. Compact. Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves from the tips of my fingers slicing sinewy scars into their closely packed
flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh. So many of them marked. That way. Marked. One hidden blue track. And there is
nothing, nothing, nothing, no- thing to match, not ever, to match, the sad, swollen rolling legato of what we might have been.
Temple veins popping with gold. Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And we are undone forever. Forever. Always. For always. Undone.
So they tell me. Maybe one day. Maybe one day. We shall rise. In a howling, a howling, a howling, a screaming
murmuration we shall rise. Then, not even the bones of the ancients, not even the smoke of their prayers before dawn, will tether us to the
Earth. ©sdrogers 24 october 2014

Out of the Window

Out of the Window






















There are endings.
Then there are
              Endings.

Thirty days of silence
Fall from the window 
Of my throat in a 
Shroud of linen so soiled
Not even
         Blue
Can cleanse it.

Thirty years of silence
Stretch from the ledge
Of my heart in a 
Frozen sea so vast
Not even 
        Red
Can forge it.

I am come awake now, 
Awash in 
         Indigo
A black-eye bruise 
Where once there was
So much laughter.

It is the
         Ending
And soon all will be
The not quite white
                  Grey 
Of winter.


©sdrogers 14 october 2014


A New Word

Oh, let me write
no more of
you

let me write
instead of 
him

his sadness
his strength
his talent
for 
shepherding
the disparate
the dissolute
the un
      invited

let me write
no more of
her

no

let me for
get you both
writhing wild 
upon the floor
the hyena stripes
of her hair throttling
us all

no

let me write
instead of 
his legs

long and lean and 
hooked
across whatever 
he holds dear
locked
around whatever
he refuses to 
lose

Thunder Forth!

yes, rain
there should be
rain
rolling like a
low-rider bass
along the avenue

but there is 
only
cloud-grey ice 
and a sliver of 
yellow

pooling in perfect 
Euclidean symmetry
along a bottom 
of temperant glass


©sdrogers 3 october 2014