David Jackson

“…BY ANY OTHER NAME…”
By Paul Malécot

Be not so afraid
of “getting it wrong.”
that you get nothing
for it is
in our mistakes
that we are truly human
It is thru our “humanness”
that we may find again
our innocence
for only as children
can we taste the Rose
without even
the awareness of thorns
which are but
our own paranoia
For, We are the Rose…..

***

MIDTOWN REVIVAL AND THE FINGER OF FATE

Wednesday, midweek, after Rose Monday

and Shrove Tuesday pass without notice,

a quiet man appears in Chicago (chosen

because Irish-Catholic); a Wonder Worker

returns but the villagers suffer Lent,

its long fast from belief. He shows

them visions of paradise.

Police atop geldings disperse the crowd

that gathers. Move along. Nothing

to see here. Move along. Morning”s

business traffic reaches high pitch,

drowns out comforting words. Grey suits

passing drop coins at his feet. Shoppers

stare into store windows, try to recall

that face. Was it “As the World Turns?”

A bit part. No! “All Our Children”!

Looks like it”s going to be a scorcher,

reports a passing taxi, its radio loud

cluttering thin air over raging curses

of the gutter class some of whom

urinate against the daylight wall

behind the Wonder Worker, baptized

in their river of night before cheap

drinks. Traffic lights rotate the three

basic laws. Go pause Stop. Beginning

middle and End. This is the One Way.

Two boys in colors stab, rob, then rape

the Wonder Worker. He is left to die

at the Water Tower. A finger points

toward heaven. A street vendor finds

his spot defiled. He shutters: What?

Christ Jesus, not again.

***

MALACHAI AMONG the WANDERERS

An old man sucks from the bottle of his ferment

at two brutishly before the meridian; he waits

for a muse to grab his groin, tremble him

into poetry but the lights glare

what comes

are the Wanderers

of too many colorless

dreams, blank screams

of thrashing limbs.

The Wanderers

shouldering large sacks

of things never done

in places unvisited,

chances not chanced.

He smells them,

crotches of wet

wet horses ridden

then stalled without care;

he does not care

where he sits

imprisoned

in flesh

barred by his bones.

What comes

are Wanderers

overdressed in

inaccurate gray,

pearls in their eyes,

moaning his mistakes.

He watches them

skirt through shadows

under the drapes of his lashes.

So many nights

So many nights

of vomited misuse.

So many nights

sharing his wine

with the Wanderers.

So many nights

studying the metrics

of never success,

the steady trickle

of his fluids running

down alley walls

into sewers.

He is dying

from his useless pointer

upward; from inside,

outward he is dying.

Another damned night

of endless failure

he spends

shallowly

gasping for words

to fill the void

of sleep time

sleepless