sneaking my mother’s creepy g-d on high
Prelude, December 1997
“Where should I look?” She asks breathless, Trudging bootless. I barely hear her Over the crackling snow Beneath my feet, but say, “There… There's Heaven's Gate.” She fiddles with the binox dials. I point again, “There… That smudge in the sky.” Thirty-nine bodies In matching Nikes… I close wet eyes To the hiss & sizzle Of the arcing Aurora Over my head, Silence Then the cold murmur of the cold mother... “That's why they died?” She shrugs. My eyes open… careful, I shrug, “Maybe… they saw a signal from aliens. Or maybe God on high. Who knows what grimdark sign They read that silent night…” Wordless, clueless… a comet sailed Ribbons of green and purple light. One cold blue, one hot pink tail Fading into history’s last sight… So we stroll on into Fake New Year’s dinner Cuz not everyone Could schedule in The Real One. How rare it is A two-tailed comet in the sky, A lover doesn’t lie with her eyes, To greet one free man before you die, How rare it is How rare it is
Dinner Music
my mother in a halo of candles my mother wrapped in smoke my mother in dark shadows measuring the length of my rope She gathers reports from her children This year’s fugue & pedal point, Her table a feast of sand. Youngest Mark files his, A new open source project… “I’m really getting seen.” Lifting my glass to him From the dark walnut table, I sip vodka… Neat. Martha next, from her foreign outpost A well-received talk given… Vodka. Neat. Second-oldest Luke comments, Wearing a dead father’s mantle “So proud of this my family Progress on nearly every front. John, you seem… Well, better… strangely.” Yeah. Vodka. Neat. And deep. Mary reports a year in faith. Jesus gave her home. Jesus gave her kids. Jesus gave her strength… alone. I close my eyes in frustration See only those twin tails Sailing in that dark… No wine, no wafer Just vodka. Neat. The broken mother nods, Waves a weary hand at each. Then turns to me, Product of her first postpartum, Eldest stranger at her table. She faintly smiles…, “John?” This last-invited autist Drunk to a numb survival Starts slow… and slurred, “Ya know…? Never... believed... in heroes. Those guys & their comet? They did.” I hear hands tense, Casual wear shift & rustle, Eyes crinkle & narrow… Familiar, family sounds. My runaway train picks up steam plunging on and into a dark tangential tunnel “A part of me rejects a g-d born perfect without sin, casually tossing miracles like candy & coins… sublime from a gaudy Mardi Gras float To kids playing in the grime…” I gulp a breath. Silence a child, high on a stone altar a hand… a knife in mid air… a sacrfice for appearances like thirty-nine bodies in matching Nike pairs… How fair is it Jesus and Jim Jones Both got emails from Beyond, Love rusts til It’s just one more bond, Your soul’s released when Your last day’s dawned, How fair is it How fair is it
Interlude, January 1998
Flash Cut Couple weeks later Ice Storm of ‘98. Frozen in time, frozen in mind Aunts, uncles and cousins No one’s got power, trapped… Cabin, cards, liquor… discussions. Killing time… 3 days… Instead of each other. Oh shit. Under my breath… “Damn it to Hell.” Then head down, out loud, “Oh, Shit.” I’m looking at the cards I'm dealt. So many near-miss combos So many runs that went nowhere… “My bad. I shoulda played that 9 My mind’s off wandering again Let me grab that back. This time.” “No… You gotta drink … Ya gotta drink! This time… Every time!” Rinse repeat Mistake over mistake Vodka neat, vodka neat Vodka… I… wake to… laughter “Uncle Johnny, you’re the dude From stuck up cunt To puking your shoes. Man, can you let go… when you want.” And let go... I did. A distracted juggler drops his satin ball, A drunken knife thrower ties assistants to the wall, The smoking fortune teller wheezes, “Doom finds us all,” A Ring Master’s whip echoes through an emptying hall….
Cadenza, for the End of Time
My catechism asked Why did that g-d make me? I ask Why did this unbonded mom have me? To follow a comet into… Desperation Dissolution Suicide And the Peace… Of no need for understanding? Ever again? There is no hero No god No bodhisattva That does not hide The dazzling Confusion In a burning bush Or explains to me Like I’m a five-year old Why that twin-tailed comet Still sails across my mind How rare it is To find a god Doesn’t want more Than he gave, A lover who can stay… Even while I rave, A man who can live Not caring if he’s saved, How rare it is. How rare it is.
Click to return to the complete poetry collection, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head — Songs of Autistic Innocence …and Experience.”
