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Prostitutes and other sad angels

Prayer for the Death of a Grandfather

He came from the dysfunctional side of the human family.
So…he was dysfunctional.
She came from a small tribe. So it was not about the money.
She was fed up with him…being fed up…about the war.

Medication and quitting helped him survive
the death of fall…and rumors of another ice age.
Children, the beast of pray and a 1,000 lovers helped her…go on forgetting
medication and quitting…helped him at all…replace her laughter.

Like any coward…he wanted to blame everyone
but who was responsible…for his inevitable train wreck.
So she offered to translate his poetry…so it would rhyme for the world.
Here is a test. You can begin…with this apology to your daughter by the unsavable:

Don’t take the unforgivable so personal.
Forgive him as easily or as hard as you would anyone who hungers
for life when they felt they were dieing in the beauty of childhood
as the smallest of the ugly and unlovable.

Despite all his cruelty…between his circumcision and death.
Despite all his blood letting…between the diseases of the mind and the cures of his soul.
But most of all…because your mother believed his story…I want her more now than ever before…to believe what he knows.
For me it will never be an easy prayer to undue pain in the here and now by saying…good-by forever.


For Sophie

Without her consent
he swore to tell her everything,
the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Therefore he grew as boring and as dangerous
…as the Geneva Convention.
After all he never meant to imply…he would be easy…to love.


On the pages of some Holy Book…from long ago is the following inscription:

Stolen especially for Maid Marion
who never understood Robin
who never understood himself
..how the hungry…can steal.


A Street Called Berlin

I remember a knock once at the door of an old lover…who I lost.
It was a dark time I want to forget
carrying a child through the streets of Sodom
only to arrive late trying to break into the room
she had for anyone…but an infant boy.

In those days like today it was a typical Inn.
The owner was well protected…by guards.
So I tried even the magic of begging…for love
which leads me to the question…why
do you think by saying my name was Joseph
would it have given my family…a place to rest?

Do lies work better than prayer…
like years later when it was all in a typical days work
to trade stolen goods in Gomorrah…for medicine…for another child.


Death of an Elder

Some elders have a right to know.
Some are not that profound.
And for some…even teaching
obscenities and profanities to innocence
is not one of their charms.

So by the time he returned
to the real world…he began
to rewrite this story to himself:

Once upon a time
he could have been happy
with almonds and flowers…and her.
But he expected too much
because he wanted too little.

So as the funeral party moved on
a new lover tried to laugh and dance
at the music of these lines:
from flesh to flesh
from ashes to ashes
now she will never find you…hiding here.


I was there at the scourging
and remember the Crown of an Iron Age
pressed upon the brow.
There…bound in leather
in robes…moist with agony
they reminded the defeated lover
what a slut and good fuck…the virgin is.

I know…I’ve heard the argument before:
the world knows nothing of him
therefore he knows nothing…of the Earth
or the obscenity of crusades.

For that reason I understand this crucifixion:
it is Lucifer he wages war with
and follows…and leads each fallen angel
from the prisons of hell…against the thrown of heaven.

After all let’s not pretend the father…is innocent of evil
for it was not born in the garden
not that kind…of hatred.
And even demons have their plan
in protecting martyrs
from your un-scarred body.

So do not tell me of blasphemy
not when the pure of heart have known
mutilation and despair
and a deity so unmoved by prayer…it is frightening.

Now, let the ashes of my corpse terrorize you
in spite of him…in spite of her
in spite of the crimes of a forsaken messiah
I have chosen sides and swear
I remain forever at war…with your God!

The Abortion

On the day you kept the rabbi from celebrating the bris
and the priest from performing the christening
the angels ceased to dance.

Now I give you these truths as evidence of my agony:
The womb is not so miraculous
as the lost mind…that gave birth
to the infants laughter.
The tabernacle is not so sacred
as the heart…that conceived
the fetal yearnings.
And nine full moons is not as long
as each day…I dream the child into life
and forever from my embrace.

My heartache will not heal; your innocence will not return.
For I have this scar you left as a memory…of your love.


I remember as a child
the woods
and even
farther away
where the rainbow
promised to touch the Earth
and the side of a hill
and the birds who lived there.

We picked blueberries then
and swept a path through the green jungle
vowing to never reveal
the secrets
we’ve now forgotten.


Death of an Elder

Some elders have a right to know.
Some are not that profound.
And for some…even teaching
obscenities and profanities to innocence
is not one of their charms.

So by the time he returned
to the real world…he began
to rewrite this story to himself:

Once upon a time
he could have been happy
with almonds and flowers…and her.
But he expected too much
because he wanted too little.

So as the funeral party moved on
a new lover tried to laugh and dance
at the music of these lines:
From flesh to flesh
from ashes to ashes
now she will never find you…hiding here.


It’s easier to talk in the third person
to tell you what I know about him.

He was upset…with you
with the empty bed
and with himself.

That is why he left
the phone off the hook
to warn you
of his anger
and his wounded vanity
…and his phobia of phones.

And that is the most important thing I can tell you.
He is not proud
he can not abandon his hatred
…even for the wrong reasons.

If you knew him better
you’d understand
at 11:00 p.m.
he wanted to call
to torment you
with the love
of his tormented heart.

But the man is no fool.
He was wise enough to know
he did not want to know
…it was already too late.


For Stephen…who doesn’t want to know me

You don’t really know this but had I pressed the matter
I could have easily slept with your wife.

It wasn’t easy not to.
For me
she smelled more of the earth than of raw vegetables.
She was well trained in Jewish lore
She knew everything about Rodin’s mistresses and
she loved Michelangelo.

This is a warning: Don’t let her out of your sight.
I can tell you from past experience
some wives
…are easy to misplace.

I never saw you in Tina min Square
or St. Peters-burg
or in the other prisons
in Washington D.C.

I never saw you inhaling
tear gas in Paris
or in flames in Saigon
and in a hundred thousand
other cities and times
I never caught you…stealing
because you were hungry
or naked
or hunted
or wanted to share
a lost mind.

So do not tell me of love or freedom
and how to wage war
and especially do not tell me
how to protect children.

Halfway between the Pentagon and the clinic
my suicide note began
far earlier
on the road to Dachau
or was it Syracuse
or Front St.
that reminds me…I have no family.

I am only here to warn you
the last of the hippies

…is still alive.


Lucifer, I could have loved you
more once when you wore the tiara…at the Cyber Cafe.
But now you have the coveted crown…of loneliness to wear
so wear it wear it well…it becomes you.
Because hell is empty and Satan is gone…leaving you only
a thousand dollar phone bill and a wardrobe of chastity belts
each one colder than the last.

And where is Satan? Satan is lost…and in a lonelier place still.
Satan is in the nakedness of Limbo…and in the terror of wondering…with hopelessness
if he is the Messiah…or the Antichrist
or only in the agony of knowing he is loosing his mind forever…again.
And you want to go there with him…but you can’t
because you can’t hear his heart scream:
When can I come home…from the war against hate?
And can I ever come home…from the war against love?

So how did you think I would cum…and my kisses taste
when you took your phone from the hook and changed your address in a night?
Did you expect me to rest in peace…on the laurels
of yesterdays…dead poems?
And where were you…when Nature’s arms opened up
and a forsaken man cried out:
I have no scars. I can’t walk on water. I can’t change water into wine.
I can’t be him.

And I wonder…are you jealous of her now…when she whispered then:
That’s the way it’s suppose to be.
Because you have long legs and beauty and your breasts and thighs
are willing to be touched.
But is Venus still in heaven? Because Cupid is gone too
leaving her only…the dream of New York and holding hands
…in Harlem.

And sometimes I too forget…what ever happened
to the beauty of phone sex
and the beauty…I never knew in Spokane
who no doubt is already in the arms of another
trading in golden locks
for a more virginal phone number
than the one she lured me in with.

After all wasn’t the music of my poetry…as good and angry
as Patchable and Marilyn Manson
Or didn’t you like the conversations
and being welcomed to Limbo, my love,
and the War against War
where I’m still not sure…you were ever as nude
“…as the young and the hopeless.”


The Pretty Prostitute

Like Magdalene before her and the angels after her
she was aging…and on the other side…of expensive.
We collided, during a sick age…in a sick place;
I, with my delusions of grandeur…and she, with stories of torture.
There were wives there then…who argued in favor of damnation
for the whores of the day…and the whores of the night.
My whore was silent… so I argued…in favor of lovers.

It was useless…so to spite them…we shared cigarettes…and coffee
and holding hands…and an embrace
but a price was never agreed upon
for love…or dinner…or a picnic in the sun…and then she was gone.
Afterwords…by way of the streets…I found the address she gave me
and was invited…into her asylum.
So we talked again and embraced…and then in only moments
I too was gone.
I heard that day by means of the sick age and the sick place
she found my flowers and candy and music…unimpressive
so they ceased.

Later on…I came back to our meeting place…as I often do
for days or weeks or months or even longer
only to discover…she was already there waiting for me.
She discovered…I hadn’t changed…but I had by way of money
more stories now..of torture and pain.
She had the unfortunate type of misery
that did not like…that much company.

I remember…by morning this time
we were no longer holding hands
and by coffee…we were no longer talking
and even my coins had stopped impressing her.
What I do not remember…was why
she did not argue…when I said good-by
and made the cruel suggestion…that she have a good life.

It was a long time later…at a new meeting place
where my long lost whore discovered
I was still waiting for her and when I heard her say,
“You’ve changed.” I realized…she hadn’t.
She was still beautiful.
As for whether she was diseased
there are cures for some kinds of crimes
but there is no cure
for never knowing…if I was only…a one night stand.


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