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Rain on the Wing

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The gold of Mexico is at the airport, the sticks
Of Cortes in my basement. We are free

To call the words of wisdom what a fool
Would warn us against. Ignore the rusty hook.

I don’t farm and history is a field I walk
With icons and trinkets in hand, lures and bobs.

The grey coat of heather and haggard face of coal
Conspire patterns in acres of mud-born puddles…

The myth of the trout I never caught is the net
I never set. It pulses with muscles, gills, scales

And the rainbow memory of a river – caught
Instead. We could have never been friends —

I never learned to fish and Cancer dried out
Between the stinging constellations. Religion

Was kissing the claws of my secret cowardice,
Letting Christ off the hook and stilling the plow

While foolhardy farmers, who know better than me,
Take their tools to the city – asking,

“Where’s the rain?” The hawk and wolf ask too,
And find their answer in the tombs

That false spring makes of fallen boughs
And rocks pushed around by thaw and freeze.

Blood between your teeth, you took wing one day,
Despite the rain, because of the blood,

And never looked down, not even once:
What Cortes had between the pages I’d never have.

What Montezuma wanted, crossed sticks
And shiny stones and savannahs spreading out

Beneath us, I could never break.
But the river broke the trout that broke

The river.

The House of Haddix: First Mansion

for Louise Cowan

Wisdom builds her house,
But folly with her own hands tears it down.
– Proverbs 14:1

You enter the house to see the house, four walls
And foundation under constant hazard
Of frost and crumbling emotions in time.
You enter the house to see what the house
Is not: these four walls and seven mansions,
The ghostly heads turned from the weariness
Of history, the keepers of the shades
Now gone down to sacred rest and left restless,
Unburied. Enter the house and the senses detect
A quiet genius undisturbed as attic air,
Locked in a tomb, no part of the fixtures
But like a fiction, finding the locus
Where object and memory meet, escape
Time, and maintain vigilance over what
From root cellar grows in the house of Haddix:
Expressed, the elegant elegiacs
In the dust and mold, the fingers of bone
Trace the moistened tracks a snail will make,
Moving toward inevitable lessons of the salt-lick.

Grace of God and raise your arms…Flood!

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So we had a flood – and thought it was a good time to have a craw boil, Nawlins style….

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Potatoes, 10 minutes; Chicken thighs, 5 minutes; Corn 3 minutes (after return to rolling boil); crawdads, 3 minutes; Shrimp 3 minutes; sausage (what the hell!). And finished off with Peychaud-laden (five dashes!) Manhattans (actually, at that point, frick! – might as well call them Birminghams!). Then cigars and port wine and conversation. Not a bad way to face the flood.

And her hallway moves
Like the ocean moves
And her hallway moves
Like the sea
Like the sea
She says “no, no, no, no harm will come your way”
She says “bring it on down, bring on the wave”
She says “nobody done no harm”
Grace of God and raise your arms
She says “face it and it’s a place to stay”
This, this is the way it was
This, this is the way it is
When the water come rushing, rushing in
She says
She says “anytime”
Raise your arms
Flood
And her hallway
Like…Like…Like a million voices call my name
Like a million voices calling
Not now, not never again…
Sitting here, now in this bar for hours
Strange men rent strange flowers
Seconds to…

One day in New Ionia or Tennessee, as the case may be…

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Do you read? Do you read? Are you in trouble? How did you get in trouble? If you are in trouble, have you sought help? If you did, did help come? If it did, did you accept it? Are you out of trouble? What is the character of your consciousness? Are you conscious? Do you have a self? Do you know who you are? Do you know what you are doing? Do you love? Do you know how to love? Are you loved? Do you hate? Do you read me? Come back. Repeat. Come back. Come back. Come back.

(CHECK ONE)

Everyone’s a…

How does a comedian know there’s no God?

Because it’s funnier that way.

Birthday poem: “Son of a Gun”

When I was young, my verse was true
My derringer shot derring-do
I livened up the “I love you”
And so I wed at .22

Time passed, my love made bold to state
“You’re like a slug that’s put on weight
But there’s still hope you will be great
Despite your age of .38”

Now when I talk of love – amor
I hear my love begin to snore
I have become a larger bore
Here at the gauge of .44

Gerasene ’17: Pic, so maybe it really did happen

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Lickona, presenting on DFW and Walker Percy and even F. Scott Fitzgerald a little bit, while JOB prepares to anoint DFW as Percy’s successor in more ways than previously imagined (language!), and Hren prepares to anoint Quin as DFW’s successor. Photo taken by the good Bishop of Brownsville, who attended the first Gerasene way back in ’09.

from the Mailbag

RT: “How and what do Catholic authors contribute to your spiritual life?”

ME: “I guess if I knew the answer to that question, I may not feel the need to read so much. Not that it’s so much.”

ME, upon further reflection: “Another answer to the question is to say that for me, not being a “cradle Catholic” (although I have no idea what it’s like to be a “cradle Catholic”, and, for all I know, there is a 100% Venn overlap with the species “convert”), direct approaches like prayer and even (sadly) the sacraments often feel forced and disingenuous. What one feels isn’t the best criterion for determining worth, but it isn’t unimportant either. Reading and writing, on the other hand, might also need to be forced, but the resistant, opposing force might come from anywhere. Catholic writers are often, even almost always helpful in determining the direction of those other forces. Like objects a bat sounds for flying. Like greens on a golf course. Like fissures and outcrops for climbing on the sheer face of absolutely nothing at all.

Once More, In the Name of Love

Proud HeterosDamn, the planet just seems to circle the sun a little more quickly every year. Here we go again.

Lots of folks showing their pride today, of course. It’s difficult not to be gay for people out and about, enjoying the sun and such, but …

It seemed to me that there’s an undercurrent of sadness in the event that wasn’t there 20 years ago. In the Gay 90s, when the parade was up on Broadway, there was still something countercultural about the event, a cross between Mardi Gras and St Patrick’s Day and maybe Women’s Suffrage—an opportunity to release all that pent up libidinal energy, or at least imagining more of it, but also to stand up for one’s God given disposition and to go public with it for political recognition. Now there’s a lot of corporate sponsorship and parents, gay and straight, walking around with the kids, and the energy seems as manufactured as a high school pep rally.

In addition to tutus and unicorns and lots of sparkles, a lot of people wore a look of sheer boredom on their faces. Along the lines of, Let’s be good sports and dress up, like we do for Halloween. Or, What now? Oh yeah … Rights! More rights!

Having spotted a number of priests and nuns, if only in costume, I wanted to see a group of women in black burqas show up and just stand there, silent. And/or see a float with an SUV sized cock ejaculating big soap bubbles or something. But no: a huge inflatable plane, emblazoned “Alaska Airlines” and King County Metro … who gives a rat’s ass? Yeah, yeah everybody’s on board now and along for the ride, we get it.

Four-olive Martini: A Minor Drama, Last Call

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Your eyes are drained as sapphires lost in blue
And ice. The frown your face is wearing tells
An adequate counterpoint to the tap
Of painted nails now playing up and down
A crystal stem. What is holding me from you
Maintains for us our several separate hells.
Our share in the punishment—your sullen lip
Against the rim, my olive quarto on
A cocktail spike—each rings as clear and true
As Gordon’s and diamonds (or Seagram’s and pearls).
Delivering the sudden burning sip—
The winter sting that splits us skin from bone—
“To each our own!” I say, and know it’s false
But wish to cut the crap with a little gin.