Poem for the End of Time

For Damon Tomblin

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
On apoc­a­lypse waves of sca­lene dreams
I rode past in char­i­ots across the valleys
Tore a hole in my destiny
It was weird and cold and dark there

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
The B on fire the R on fire the dou­ble O on fire like breasts
Pulled apart by burn­ing clamps
K the K of The Tri­al and what have I done
The L the old emp­ty El not cart­ing back my grandfather
To his wife of a WWII grenade and shards of violins
The Y o Y Y Y did I look into those gyp­sy eyes
It was weird and cold and dark there
The N the N of my name singing
God is here God is here God is here
Singing may all my ene­mies go to hell
Noel  Noel  Noel  Noel

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
There were jars turn­ing black in my neighborhood
I saw smoke ris­ing from them in my neighborhood
I was not stu­pid, my eyes were not blind
But Y o Y did I look back, pil­lar of Morton’s salt
Why did I bend to taste the sod­den grass of the soul
Why did I leave You to go to that place
It was weird and cold and dark there
The Holy Spir­it was there but I could not see it
It was dark­ly blue shin­ing but I could not see it

Gaze as rev­er­ent­ly into another’s eyes as if you were
Look­ing at the gates of hell Franz K says
As if stand­ing before the gates of hell Kaf­ka says

In my neigh­bor­hood I knocked at the gate
In my neigh­bor­hood the answer was yes
In my neigh­bor­hood I entered no longer an Innocent
In my neigh­bor­hood I became one of them one of them

No longer rinsed in the blue space of flames
I became one of them my neigh­bor­hood my neighborhood 

Some­one rides on a train in my neighborhood
Some­one hangs off a fire escape in my neighborhood
The build­ings sway ever so slight­ly in wind

The first time I left my neigh­bor­hood God wept
When I returned the sun­sets were blood

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
The por­tal to my sixth sense pried open
The por­tal my sixth sense pride open and open
I don’t think it will ever shut now
Opened and opened my neigh­bor­hood my neighborhood
Every sec­ond was a walk­ing dream
Every minute was a talk­ing spell
Every hour an apoc­a­lypse wave on a sca­lene dream

Now I’m row­ing, row­ing, the awful rowing
The row­ing of penance the row­ing through all its stages
I tore a hole in my destiny
I left You my destiny
It was weird and cold and dark there

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
      Up in flames my neighborhood
Death is a mas­ter from Bensonhurst
Death is a mas­ter from Avenue M

A dog licks the sores of a century
Lazarus, Lazarus who will be the mas­ter of the house ?
Who will be the dark fun­ny gyp­sy whirling across
The sca­lene dreams of my apoc­a­lypse neighborhood
Telling my future to the laugh­ing moon ?
My inno­cence, where is it ?
I tore a hole in my destiny

A whole in my destiny
My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
I brought you the Holy Spir­it my neighborhood
On index cards I paint­ed them blue my neighborhood
God smiled on my neighborhood
The Cre­ator gave me a shot of His pres­ence my neighborhood
So as to grat­i­fy my yearn­ing for Him my neighborhood
Now go and do like­wise my neigh­bor­hood my neighborhood

Amer­i­ca your poets flock to my neighborhood
Your beau­ti­ful wound­ed birds to my neighborhood
Your Holy Spirits
My des­tiny wraps around me like a fence my neighborhood
A fence that I will nev­er climb my neighborhood
Bells toll in my neighborhood
Books are burn­ing in my neighborhood
Can­dles are used for fuck­ing peo­ple in my neighborhood
Why did I bend to taste the sod­den grass in my neighborhood
The sca­lene waves rid­ing over the cemeteries
And we will have to get down on all 4s
And we will have to get down on all 4s
And we will have to get down on all 4s and eat those grasses
For ever and ever
Amen

In my neigh­bor­hood I dreamed of you as a child
I dreamed you sat on my bed smil­ing at me with a guitar
Damon Dae­mon Damiano
You were my fate
You were my fate
Our fate was joy
How to trans­late this
How to trans­pose it
How to tran­scend it
To trans­fig­ure it
Grass­es grasses
Which blades to lick

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
In my neigh­bor­hood I dreamed of you as a child
O Viking man with a guitar
Hands of gold, hands of myrrh

Fin­gers full of blood and weeping
Fin­gers full of vir­gins and end­less weeping
Weep­ing as Rachel weeps she will not be comforted
My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
With my visions visions visions
Of skull shat­tered mar­tyrs in Laramie, Wyoming
On a sun­ny afternoon

This crazy gov­ern­ment my neighborhood
With its rit­u­als and spells my neighborhood
With its gag laws and baptisms
With its Gold­en Gloves and South­ern Comfort
Ris­ing with phoenix, ris­ing from ashes
Ris­ing from governments
Ris­ing from cor­po­rate blood
Trekking it across Indonesia
Trekking it across Brazil
Trekking it across Africa
Trekking it across Kosovo
Trekking it across Emerg­ing Markets
God weeps in my neighborhood
The South Pole has moved 15 feet in the last year my neighborhood
The ice is melt­ing, the pen­guins are weeping
God why do You aban­don us here, here like this?

My neigh­bor­hood   my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood 
     Up in flames my neighborhood
I call out to you who are liv­ing my neighborhood
I call out to you who live in my house my neighborhood
Where I walk around in my ghost shoes
Where I eat and drink rust
Where I roll in the grass­es of cemeteries
Where the dead, the real dead of gag laws
Of Gold­en Gloves
Of South­ern Comfort
Where they lie unconfined
Down into the memory
     Down into the memory
          Down into the mem­o­ry and mem­o­ry and memory
Down into the mem­o­ry (kiss me)
You will go

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
Up into the pen­i­ten­tial rite
Well-dig­ger in the wind
Up into the yards on fire
Up into skele­tons burn­ing in bathrooms
Rat­tling a ver­sion of what was to come
In the stuff of weird and cold and dark
My life is an evil riv­er in my neighborhood
My life is a pen­i­ten­tial rite in my neighborhood
My life is the Holy Spir­it in my neighborhood
My life is the Word bisect­ed into time
My life is the Word bisect­ed into flesh
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands
Unseen night­long real

I want­ed to see but I’ve seen too much
O Viking man
I did not go there as an Inno­cent this time
Merid­i­an means cir­cle of fire
Merid­i­an the spir­it who sang in my ear
Sang in my neigh­bor­hood in my ear in my sleep
On apoc­a­lypse waves of a sca­lene dream

My 17^th birth­day, first year in Edi­son, N.J., I received the fol­low­ing mes­sage about the end of the world:

5. The beasts shall fall through the chinks in the earth
4. Build­ings will crumble
3. Pos­ses­sions will begin to disappear
2. Crowds will become thinner
1. There will be a blind­ing light stream­ing through every­thing every­thing everything

I woke to the dread of my driver’s test, and to a deer with tremen­dous antlers look­ing in at me from the patio.  I did not know not to touch the glass.   I did not know:

That the ani­mal could shat­ter the glass and tear through the house
That the glass could shat­ter and tear my throat in sca­lene waves of apoc­a­lypse dreams

Merid­i­an means cir­cle of fire.  I did not know this age 25 Gainesville, Flori­da, wolf-dis­ease lop­ing through my blood.   I did not know this and I lis­tened to her when she sang to me shril­ly of dark sal­va­tion.  I would have known I say I would have known but the week of my wed­ding I looked at the Holy Spir­it through the eyes of

                    The Fool not know­ing which road to take
                    The Magi­cian and Priestess
                    Their off­spring the Empress
                    The Emper­or who is the num­ber 4

But not the Holy Spir­it Num­ber 4
Not the Word made flesh Num­ber 4
4    4    4    4  You are so good to me num­ber 4
You are beau­ti­ful and radi­ant with great splen­dor num­ber 4
So good to emit Your bluest light
Of Him most high, You bear the likeness
And no mor­tal lips are wor­thy to pro­nounce Your name
But You descend­ed down into the memory
     Down into the memory
          Down into the mem­o­ry (kiss me)
You would go
Into Sis­ter Sleep Num­ber 4
Into Broth­er Anx­i­ety Num­ber 4
Into Moth­er Hell and Father Lie
You descend­ed num­ber 4
It was weird and cold and dark there
My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Num­ber 4 my neighborhood
Amer­i­ca your poets are flock­ing to my neighborhood
They are sick of your insane demands my neighborhood
They take jobs at dry cleaners
They take jobs at Starbucks
They take jobs in edi­to­r­i­al offices get­ting their ass­es pinched by washed-out Medeas
They take jobs clean­ing the apart­ments of drug dealers
They take jobs that come with cel­lu­lar phones
They accept voca­tions of Ulti­mate Holy Envy
(And why, dear friend, do you have to be the Messiah ?
Couldn’t you set­tle for Immanuel Kant,
O beau­ti­ful cere­bral ever-vir­gin drag­ging your­self across the star­ry sky of non-self
With your sexy blue eyes and kind­est heart?)
They take jobs lick­ing the blood from the grass­es of cemeteries
Sow­ing their seed in the whore of the Bloomberg
The sev­en-eyed mon­ster of the bina­ry code
The dig­i­tal metempsy­chosis of why Amer­i­ca, why must your Holy Spir­its drink of your
     blood
You leave them no choice America
You leave them no choice America
But to drip their blood across ener­gy and all its sectors

Across the mono­log­ic wind of their vexations
Across the Pis­tis, Elpis and Agape of machines
And the sacked altar of their moth­er Sophia
They drip holy blood from Aleph to Tau
Across sca­lene waves of your Real Presence
Of Gold­en Gloves and South­ern Comfort
Your Miss Amer­i­c­as and bat­tal­ion com­man­ders turned defense plant presidents
You leave them no choice America
You leave them no choice America
And the drom­e­daries weep, they weep across a nation
Mark­ing its head with a Tau with a Tau
Drip­ping blood over smil­ing caf­feine-pick­ers in ori­en­ta­tion films at Star­bucks, USA
USA USA USA USA
The last card of the Major Arcana, The World
I flick the switch on you America
I want you to feel how it is to be S*H*O*C*K*E*D out of your body
To be fucked into oblivion
To be fucked into God-with-Us sym­bols of music on a page
What is this riv­er of stars that runs through us all ?

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
I’ve trekked my blood all over
From Ocean Avenue to Brook­lyn Heights
From Coney Island to Far Rockaway
From the com­mu­nion of saints to the for­give­ness of sins
From Broth­er Sun to Sis­ter Death
From Kierkegaard to Saint Michel
Queer bald altar boy in leather bless­ing us all
Bless­ing Fol­some Street
Bless­ing the Castro
Bless­ing the Val­ley of Death
Bless­ing Japan­ese Zen
Bless­ing bless­ing blessing
Us all for 20 cen­turies of stony sleep
Bless­ing us and bless­ing us
Paris, Amer­i­ca, your Holy Spirits
Amer­i­ca Matthew Shep­ard is an angel weep­ing over us
Pierced by the Holy Spir­it for­ev­er in heaven
Amer­i­ca when will you hear my novenas
In smoke ris­ing from jars
Amer­i­ca the Cre­ator has giv­en me a shot of His presence
Amer­i­ca I stand under Atlas

Drip­ping my blood across 5^th Avenue
Drip­ping my blood on the walls of St. Pat’s
Amer­i­ca your beau­ti­ful birds
They flock to my neighborhood
O Viking man with a guitar
You sat on a bed in my neighborhood
You lay on a bed in my neighborhood
Viking man now I nev­er see you anymore
In the night, the stars, the way things used to be
Why did I look into those gyp­sy eyes
It was weird and cold and dark there
Alone, alone, alone, alone with my visions of skull-shat­tered martyrs
In Laramie, Wyoming
Amer­i­ca what is this riv­er of stars that runs through us all?

My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood
     Up in flames my neighborhood
Your skull-shat­tered mar­tyrs your mar­tyrs tied to fences and left for scarecrows
In Laramie, Wyoming
Wyoming of Pol­lock Wyoming of Guardians of the Secret
Wyoming of dogs lick­ing a ritual
The totems are burning
The man has become numbers
The woman is an ocean and an eye

When I was 5 I was told there were giant veg­eta­bles who were try­ing to kill me,      per­haps most espe­cial­ly the giant toma­to who would pound on the door while 3 6’s danced on my head.  No one heard.

My 6^th sense pried open I don’t think it will stop
My 6^th sense pride open I don’t think it will stop
It is weird and cold and dark here
They gyp­sies are no longer funny
And I am no longer an Innocent

Bless me my neigh­bor­hood for I have sinned
I’m writ­ing that poem from coast to coast
I’m singing that poem from coast to coast
Broth­er of Francis
I’m mak­ing my pil­grim­age from Word to Thing
From Brook­lyn Bridge to Gold­en Gate
From Pos­man Books to City Lights
From LUNGFULL ! to 6500

From Fence to Zyzzyva
From Lit to God knows what they’ll come up with next
From Clover to Rohrer
From to Strof­foli­no to Hillman
From young Fuhrman to the rocky fault
I’m singing my nove­nas 9 x 9
Coffins no alpha­bet can contain
Coffins no gag laws can contain
No Gold­en Gloves
No South­ern Comfort
Damon Dae­mon Damiano
O God rebuild my Church
It is weird and cold and dark here
Which you can see is falling into ruins
It is weird and cold and dark here
Amer­i­ca your saints are scarecrows
Amer­i­ca your man­i­fest des­tiny is Starbucks
Amer­i­ca your fron­tiers are weep­ing Emerg­ing Markets
Amer­i­ca I make mon­ey from this
Amer­i­ca I mark your head with a Tau with a Tau
Your bird, your Holy Spir­it, yours tru­ly (cour­tesy of Microsoft’s Autotext)

Amer­i­ca Be
     Righteous
     Over
     Our
     Kingdom
     Love
     Your
     Neighbor

Amer­i­ca Moth­er Hell and Father Lie
Have poi­soned all the apple pie
Amer­i­ca I am the guardian of your secrets
I tore a hole in my des­tiny try­ing to under­stand you
And now I am no longer an Innocent
Bless me my neigh­bor­hood for I have sinned
Bless me for I have sinned against your Holy Spirit
Every sec­ond was a wak­ing dream
Every minute was a walk­ing spell
Broth­er of Fran­cis pray for me
It is weird and cold and dark here
$45,000 in cred­it cards =$20 out of some CEO’s pocket

The gyp­sies are no longer fun­ny my neighborhood
And I am no longer an Inno­cent my neighborhood
What a fer­al fucked-up riff on the Walden exper­i­ment my neighborhood
But you see I wished to live delib­er­ate­ly my neighborhood
To front only the essen­tial facts of life my neighborhood
And see if I could not learn what it had to teach my neighborhood
And not, when I came time to die, dis­cov­er I had not lived my neighborhood
And my eyes were no longer blind

In my neigh­bor­hood I knocked at the gate
In my neigh­bor­hood the answer was yes
In my neigh­bor­hood I am no longer an Innocent
In my neigh­bor­hood I became one of them one of them

You leave me no choice my neighborhood
You leave me no choice my neighborhood
Drip­ping my blood across sca­lene dreams
Eat­ing the grass­es of the ceme­ter­ies on all 4s
With you ever-vir­gin-cum-Mes­si­ah of sexy blue eyes and kind­est heart
Couldn’t you just be Immanuel Kant?
It was weird and cold and dark with you
In Sis­ter Sleep
In Broth­er Anxiety
In Moth­er Hell and Father Lie
When I lis­tened to Merid­i­an sing shril­ly of dark salvation
Now my life is a pen­i­ten­tial rite
My life tears through my house like a word-deer through a forest
I did not know not to touch the glass
My life is a pen­i­ten­tial rite in my neighborhood
My life is the Holy Spir­it bisect­ed into time into flesh
What is this riv­er of stars that runs through us all?

Viking man I stand under Atlas
Drip­ping my nove­nas on the walls of St. Pat’s
Amer­i­ca your birds flock to my neighborhood
Amer­i­ca your Holy Spir­its flock to my neighborhood
Viking man with a guitar
You sat on my bed in my neighborhood
You lay on my bed in my neighborhood
O why did I look into those gyp­sy eyes
Death is a mas­ter from Bensonhurst
Death is a mas­ter from Avenue M

Alone alone with my visions of skull-shat­tered martyrs
Alone in black smoke ris­ing from jars
My neigh­bor­hood I tore a hole in my destiny
My neigh­bor­hood of beau­ti­ful birds
My neigh­bor­hood of hid­den cemeteries
My neigh­bor­hood of ghost shoes of Bloomberg and blood
My neigh­bor­hood gleam­ing with Broth­er Sun
Now even He is killing us too
My neigh­bor­hood some­one wants to jab a Coke billboard
Through the fair face of Sis­ter Moon

Amer­i­ca your skull-shat­tered martyrs
Are fucked into the God-sym­bols of music
Are fucked into Emerg­ing Markets
Are fucked into your fron­tiers slouch­ing toward the rough beast of Bloomberg
Are fucked into Irony
Are fucked into your genet­i­cal­ly-altered apple pie
I tore a hole in my des­tiny try­ing to under­stand you
O why did I ruin myself Broth­er of Francis
Why did I ruin myself I’ve seen too much
A bell tolled in my neighborhood
Books rose from the flames in my neighborhood
A can­dle fucked some­one in my neighborhood
God please rebuild my Church my neighborhood
As you can see I am falling into ruins my neighborhood
I sing shril­ly of dark salvation
I sing shril­ly of essences
I sing of Dou­glas firs burn­ing in the moon­light of Twin Peaks
They are burn­ing over the Black Lodge set my peo­ple free
Come to us Emmanuel, not on a lawn­mow­er rid­ing over the lost high­ways of collapsed 
     daylight
Not with Lula and Sailor rid­ing into the desert
Past acci­dents, past blood, past tongues of back­ward speech
Past the raped bod­ies of home­com­ing queens she’s dead wrapped in plastic
Past the body of a vir­gin washed over by ocean dross
Over a face drawn in sand at the edge of a sea
Alone with my visions of skull-shat­tered martyrs
I call out to you my love
I sing in the show­er to you my love
I turn on all the lights my love
I kiss your beau­ti­ful wound­ed hands my love
Your hands full of vir­gins, your hands full of blood

How to under­stand it, how to trans­late it
Broth­er of Fran­cis I’ve seen too much
In my neigh­bor­hood I spoke in the tongues of angels
In my neigh­bor­hood I spoke in the tongues of men
In my neigh­bor­hood a gong resounded
In my neigh­bor­hood a cym­bal clanged
A bell tolled, a book slammed shut, a can­dle sput­tered out its last
I tore a hole in my destiny
Now I hang in a field of blood
Broth­er of Fran­cis pray for me
Go fuck your­self with your 30 pieces of sil­ver my neighborhood
Shove it up your God-damned ass my neighborhood
I eat you like a tiger of shame
Like a lit­tle girl a tiger of shame
The rain is falling now on these words my neighborhood
Stain­ing these pages as I write my neighborhood
And I’ve writ­ten that the bap­tism of the insid­er is a let­tered feat
And I’ve writ­ten that the great god Diony­sus tore the babes
From their moth­ers’ wombs and made them suckle
The fire­wa­ter instead of the breast
And I’ve writ­ten that he whipped them with the pur­ple vines
And with the pur­ple vines he bap­tized them
I wrote those words after I left my neighborhood
After I was for­cept­ed a sec­ond time at 15 from your womb my neighborhood
Now I am speak­ing these words smear­ing their black love across the warm win­ter rain
     my neighborhood
I am speak­ing these words and you can’t stop me my neighborhood
The wind is blow­ing fierce­ly my neighborhood
I sing shril­ly of dark salvation
I sing poems in self-help books
I sing sunsets
I sing sunsets
I sing Irony into the skull-shat­tered walls of oblivion
I sing Bloomberg
I sing blood
My neigh­bor­hood what did you do to your Holy Spirits
The are raped by the can­dles of Irony my neighborhood
The bells are tolling my neighborhood
The books are fill­ing up with resound­ing cym­bals my neighborhood
I lift up my can­dle my neighborhood
The rain is falling even hard­er my neighborhood
I am speak­ing this poem as I’m writ­ing it my neighborhood
Peo­ple are walk­ing by won­der­ing what I’m doing my neighborhood
When they ask I ask them to bless me my neighborhood

The last man said he would bless every­one my neighborhood
In this riv­er of stars that runs through us all my neighborhood
I will ride over sca­lene dreams in a paper boat my neighborhood
My words will rise like phoenix­es my neighborhood
Alone, alone, alone, alone
From Ocean Avenue to Brook­lyn Heights
From Coney Island to Far Rockaway
From Brook­lyn Bridge to Gold­en Gate
From the com­mu­nion of saints to the for­give­ness of sins
And Irony is the most wound­ed bird of all my neighborhood
Her wings are paint­ed black my neighborhood
She cov­ers her knees with a shawl my neighborhood
She rocks back and forth in the dusk my neighborhood
Per­haps some raggedy sense will in fact sneak back into our lives my neighborhood
Irony is the most wound­ed bird of all my neighborhood
She speaks like Diane Sawyer yet she is a Jedi Knight my neighborhood
She rocks back and forth and cries all alone my neighborhood
20 Cen­turies of stony sleep my neighborhood
And we will have to get down on all 4s and eat the grass­es of them all

Saint Michel Fou­cault queer altar boy in leather bless­ing us bless­ing us
Bless­ing us from Fol­some Street
Bless­ing us from the Castro
Bless­ing us from Japan­ese Zen
Bless­ing us from Paris
Bless­ing us in a chador
Bless­ing us in hospices
Bless­ing us all your Holy Spirit

We climb past mid­night my neighborhood
We climb past Kaf­ka my neighborhood
We climb past lit­er­ary the­o­ry my neighborhood
Where Bau­drillard proves the Gulf War nev­er hap­pened my neighborhood
Where the starv­ing bod­ies of Iraqi chil­dren dis­ap­pear with­out a trace my neighborhood
Into sig­ni­fiers danc­ing like bloody hooks my neighborhood
They are the well-dig­gers in the wind my neighborhood
We rise up past our yards on fire my neighborhood
Yards full of ears and skele­tons in bath­rooms my neighborhood
This is the stuff of rev­o­lu­tion my neighborhood
It has been light-sabered into your skull-shat­tered mar­tyrs my neighborhood
Your dead lay their hands on us in abso­lu­tion my neighborhood
Your Holy Spir­its, your birds shit­ting their Todesworten across the grass­es of a century 
     my neighborhood

Achtung my neighborhood
Achtung my neighborhood
I tore a hole in my destiny
I drip blood on your Church walls
I sing my nove­nas from smoky black jars
And the movies that eke past the death machine
And the movie where the ora­cle says, maybe you’ll remem­ber that you don’t really 
     believe in any of that fate crap
Do you
Neo
Neo
Well, my neigh­bor­hood, nei­ther do I believe in any of that fate crap
Broth­er of Fran­cis pray for me
While I lift up my can­dle over my apoc­a­lypse dreams
The Word will cross the for­est like a gazelle
And bisect itself into time once again
Bless me Father for I have sinned
Bless me Broth­er of Fran­cis for I have sinned
Bless me Viking Man for I have sinned
Bless me Kind Vir­gin with sexy blue eyes for I have sinned
Bless me my neigh­bor­hood for I have sinned
Bless me again with your beach chairs and trees
Your yen­tas and supermarkets
Your invis­i­ble book­stores and hand­ball courts
And Broth­er Sun who is so radiant
And Sis­ter Moon who is so fair
And your birds who see fit to graze my hair
Go now and sin no more my neighborhood
But always remem­ber my neigh­bor­hood my neighborhood
Remem­ber the black jars and stony sleep
Remem­ber the visions of skull-shat­tered martyrs
The apoc­a­lypse boats of sca­lene dreams
Remem­ber the row­ing of penance, the row­ing through all its stages
Remem­ber the tear­ing of holes in destiny
Remem­ber the squares that were dark­ly blue shining
And sun­sets of blood
Remem­ber well-dig­ger in the wind
Remem­ber the sig­ni­fiers cling­ing to us like bloody hooks
Remem­ber the skele­tons rat­tling bathrooms
Remem­ber the forests full of suffixes
Remem­ber in the bosom of Moth­er Hell, on the shoul­ders of Father Lie
Remem­ber the B on fire the R on fire
The dou­ble O pried apart by burn­ing clamps
Remem­ber the K of the K of The Tri­al and what have I done

Remem­ber the low mur­murs in L‑shaped rooms
The Y Y Y asked of the Once-He-was-washing-the-world
One and Infi­nite, anni­hi­lat­ed,  –ied
Remem­ber the N of God is here God is here
Remem­ber that light was
Salvation
Remem­ber your Holy Spirits
In all that is seen and unseen
Remem­ber in Hatred, Injury, Doubt, Despair, Dark­ness, Sad­ness and their dear sister
     Irony
Who is the most wound­ed bird of all
Who weeps in secret in her raggedy shawl
Remem­ber your birds graz­ing each other’s hair
From Ocean Avenue to Brook­lyn Heights
From Coney Island to Far Rockaway
From Pos­man Books to City Lights
From Brook­lyn Bridge to Gold­en Gate
From Broth­er Sun to Sis­ter Death
From Paris to NYC
From Indone­sia to Brazil
From Africa to Kosovo
From Alpha to Omega
From Aleph to Tau
Tau mark­ing our heads where we weep with­out ceasing
Remem­ber the low mur­murs in L‑shaped rooms
Remem­ber in Hatred, Injury, Doubt, Despair, Dark­ness, Sad­ness and their dear sister
     Irony
Remem­ber through the tear­ing of holes in destiny
Remem­ber the 4s that were dark­ly blue shining
Remem­ber the sun­sets full of blood full of blood
Remem­ber that the Cre­ator loves us very much
And that the Cre­ator has giv­en us a shot of His presence
And that we are stars in the same end­less river
I lift up my can­dle my neighborhood
I call out to you my neighborhood
I sing in the show­er to you my neighborhood
I turn on all the lights my neighborhood
For this we were giv­en a voice my neighborhood
For this we were giv­en a voice my neighborhood
For this  for this  for this  and for this
For this we were giv­en a voice
My neigh­bor­hood  my neigh­bor­hood  my neighborhood

[in The Iowa Review ‚2003 and in Poem for the End of Time and Oth­er Poems, Wave Books, 2006]