Driving Down Division

Driving Down Division

Prologue

Division Street divides Spokane like a scar
from stem to stern
from north to south
dividing west from east
heart from liver
you might find
Al’s Motel on one side
with its hourly rates
and crusted bloody sheets
or on the other side find
St. Al’s church with its
collection plates
and Jesuit schemes
in the middle you might
find yourself in transit
driving down Division.

The Past

I wake up tied up
to a bed in Al’s Motel
the taste of sawdust in my mouth
what time is it? the April sky
is overcast overeasy
pigeon shit on the window
stains my view
and I strain at the thought of
how did that pigeon shit
fly sideways to land there?
there’s a song in my head
Annie wants a baby
she was my love long ago
many missing pieces ago
before the millionth abortion
before I left and lost my head
the room is surprisingly clean
it reeks of cigarettes and stale perfume
but the reek is a grace note
threading through the death march
playing a throbbing in my brain
the reek is a puzzle piece
that might fit somewhere
if I could only find the puzzle
if I could only untie these knots
bitch, that bitch tied me up
and took my money
by the looks of it
she even took my boots
and the sunshine I saved inside those boots
that bitch but who could blame her.

The Future

I fall asleep kneeling at the altar rail
in St. Al’s church, Christ like a
piece of a puzzle on my tongue
tasting like sawdust but washed down
with wine and blood, accident and substance
the stained glass windows black in the dark
my soul black but washed clean
ready to burn white
now and at the time of my death
O brother death, O bright wings
over the bent world
over my bent soul
over the gaping hole in my bent soul
the gaping godshaped hole
there’s a song in my head
Annie wants a baby
she was my love long ago
and now I see her dark eyes
the church is cluttered with statues
and cast-off sins swept by the wind
like puzzle pieces scattered
the leftover smell of incense and oil
a hospital for sinners
or a morgue
it makes no difference to my soul
ascending
it makes no difference to my spirit
flying
I don’t look back
my hand is on the plow
my boots are far below
the moon setting the sun rising
blameless, eternal, alive.

The Present

You Can Call Me Al
is playing on the radio
I’m driving down Division
and I am divided
you can call me Al
or you can call me Zimmy
you can call me Simon
or you can call me Garfunkel
I am a man divided
and there’s a crack in my windshield
it runs the length of it
there’s a crack in my soul
and ice that wants to wedge there
to break me in two
something wants to split me
and destroy me
but something else
with fiery wings
wants to drive down in me
down my division
and weld me together
I can see that now
I can see a bird high overhead
it might be an eagle or a big hawk, hunting
swooping and diving
I keep driving
through the sweet smell of my own sweat
down Division down into the city
my boot sole gentle on the gas pedal
down town down
into the heart of it
a new song comes on
Annie wants a baby
missing pieces she’s got
a lot of them
so do I, so do I.

The Leprechaun’s Advice to My Daughter

leprechaun-pot-of-gold-coins-by-IGNACIOLEOI have a nine-year-old daughter who, as is the practice in our diocese, went through confirmation and first communion (in tandem) about a year ago. Since then, I’ve been wondering if waiting until later for confirmation (as is the norm in most dioceses, I think) might not have been the better course. She was all for getting confirmed, seemed to really like the grown-up credentials that were thereby assigned to her, etc., which I thought was all well and good. But since then things have degraded. Getting this girl to mass every week has increasingly become an ordeal. She hates it, is bored by it, whines and moans and protests about it every week, and then sits through it as disengaged as she can be, occasionally asking when it will be over. This is troubling to say the least.

With that in mind, tell me if the following deception on my part is morally questionable and/or in any other way ill-advised. Or is it a justifiable form of holy trickery akin to what Walker Percy said about the Catholic writer having to use every trick at her disposal to lure the reader into receiving the news from across the sea?

Last night this girl left her shoes out for the leprechaun who always visits the night before St. Patrick’s Day to leave goodies in. She included a little gift for the leprechaun (a pencil with shamrocks on it) and a note asking him to leave her a real photo of himself as proof of his existence. So I left some chocolate gold coins in the shoes, took the pencil, and then scribbled a thank you on her note (in my best leprechaunish hand) saying that she should check her email (yes, she has her own email account) for a photo. Then I got online and created an email account for the leprechaun (leprechaun_37@), found a suitable photo online, and sent it to her as an attachment from “yours truly.”

She loved it. To tell the truth, I’m not sure to what degree she really buys it. I think she is willing to suspend disbelief and join in the fun of it to some extent. But at any rate, she is playing along and very keen on having a leprechaun she can exchange emails with.

Fast forward to me telling her it’s time to get ready for mass. Her reply: “We have to go to mass on St. Patrick’s day?!” All the more so! says I. “I’m going to ask the leprechaun,” says she. So she sends the leprechaun an email: “do i have to go to mass?”

And here is the leprechaun’s repy:

Ah, H_______ my dear dear girl, what do you think? Not only do you have your marvelous Sunday obligation today, when all the faithful (among whom I assume you are counted!) are obliged to partake of the presence of Our Lord in the bread and wine — not only that (as if that weren’t more than enough miracle to draw you forth to the church my dear girl) but today is the feast day of the great great saint, Patrick of Ireland, who certainly deserves to be honored in a special way with extra prayers and oblations and songs of praise … and of course the wearing of your finest green adornments, my dear girl. Now off to holy Mass you go and no more hemming and hawing!

Your friend,
Leprechaun #37

P.S. Here is a wonderful prayer of St. Patrick I hope you will share with your family on this splendid feast day. Will you invite your mother and father and sister to pray this prayer with you today? This would surely make St. Patrick smile down on you from heaven and the sun shine a bit brighter this day.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.
I arise today
Through the strength of Christ’s birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.
I arise today
Through the strength of the love of cherubim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In the predictions of prophets,
In the preaching of apostles,
In the faith of confessors,
In the innocence of holy virgins,
In the deeds of righteous men.
I arise today, through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.
I arise today, through
God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptation of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and near.
I summon today
All these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel and merciless power
that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man’s body and soul;
Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me an abundance of reward.
Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

Please advise, ye fellow bad Catholics.

One less thing for Potter and JOB to worry about…

YES!

A Little Vaguely Valentinish Irony…

irony in headlines

…from across the pond.

And a bonus poem – in the spirit of Potter’s blotter:

The Anti-Valentine

Outside your zone
Away from my orbit
Out of your shadow
A moment alone –
No, rather – apart.
It’s what we know:

Alone.
Apart. A–
Lone. A–
Part.
A lone.
A part.

Our life has been
A mutual eclipse
Of heart from heart,
And the difference it
Makes between
These two distinct and lonely partings of lips.

Jonathan Johnson

J. Johnson came to Spokane’s urban
Environs tracking mud across
The academic carpet, carbon
Dating mastodons of loss
Put up for sale in Fairbanks’ paper,
Domestic, edgeless, Great Lakes clipper
Delivering Jonathan to our town,
A mountain man in poet’s gown,
Intense, awake, a patient teacher,
A husband, father, one who knows
The shape of silence and what grows
From silence into human nature.
Dear J, it’s nice to see you here–
When will we drink that promised beer?

Soldiers Grove Stanza

soldiers grove oldsoldiers grove

 

 

 

 

 

-written in solidarity with Spokane

In Soldiers Grove the Kickapoo has
Entwined among its piney banks
The shady form of greening mythos,
Which takes as motto: “Thanks–no thanks!”
Where once the village taverns numbered
In double-digits, floods encumbered
The pour, and city fathers moved
To move the village. Once approved
The people cast their lot with science
To capture solar-paneled fire
Upon a hill. Now higher and drier
Than amber bottled self-reliance–
Our thirsty tongues can still recall
How shadows made the sunlight fall.

soldiers grove 2

Potter Does Danger

image

Spokane Stanzas

Prologue

Spokane’s the place where water falling
From Idaho runs through with thoughts
Unconsciously unwinding, reeling
The poets in from inland squats
To take their places at the river’s
Bedraggled edges. Poets’ livers
Can’t filter all that they abuse
Themselves with for the lovely ruse
That lines of words can make unhappy
Inhabitants of Coeur d’Alene
Cease for a moment feeling pain
Or leastwise help them feel less crappy
When turning towards the Cascade heights
With thoughts of oceanic nights.

The Day Job

I am an academic health sciences librarian. I have tenure. Thus I can get away with hosting a lunchtime literary open mic for three months out of the year under the guise of library outreach. If you’re in Spokane on a Thursday, come check it out! Free pizza!

NLB 2013

So that’s what happened to Rufus.

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[Image found on Terry Richardson's frequently NSFW tumblr. Research!]

This is a demo store for testing purposes — no orders shall be fulfilled.