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HOW FAR YOU ARE WHEN WE ARE CLOSE
Columbus was lost, very lost.
He guessed the world was a globe,
But believed it much smaller. Mixed up,
He struck a huge land mass between
Europe & Asia, not an empty sea.
You are vines of ivy stealing over the moon…
You and I sink, shadows in a cavernous sea…
Your body softens winter storms…
Please don’t reveal your white feet, and legs…
Most of all, don’t be willing to die for me.
Dogs in the garden dig at poisoned lilies.
Shadow children sleep in the night jasmine.
Angels weep, dogs yelp, and I hear
Violins singing as I close windows.
I found what I needed.
©Aldo Vigliarolo: BLes Fleurs de ma Tante by
Clean sheets, no dust balls
The paper and cans sorted
Asparagus stems diced
A family engaged in Scrabble
A spelling game, everyone strives
Together to work on wily words.
&& THE GARDEN OF EDEN
When everything is perfect
Turns for the worse can be expected,
Worse, and worse, the fledgling worse
Always aging into a more mature worst.
Press your face against the gate, friends.
This world isn’t safe for children
The ones who survive paradise,
Like Adam & Eve, never were young.
THE CHURCH OF THE MEEK,
Indigent, tattered, mild.
Those who don’t throw gas
On a fire, nor dance in its light.
Tall men who stand on line
For hours voicing no complaints.
Smiling women who do not know
Where wars come from, jack-knifed
Sleepers, those who root for neither
Team, those who grin crooked teeth,
Threadbare t-shirts, sea salt, steadfast,
Those of ruined feet, sad soles, sad heels.
Those who aren’t, yet, deceased,
Neither celestial beings nor demons
Those who rarely devour meat,
Don’t often snatch what they need.
They simply nod hello, bent low,
Modest, bashful, barefoot
In March sleet, the downcast poor,
Whom the Lamb of God bled out to uplift.
WE WASH OUR HANDS
We dutifully wash our hands
As the law says, but we’re never untainted,
Never pure enough to hold the bread,
That we are commanded to break.
The blue desert women, mysterious
As intercourse with angels, henna swirls
Wrapping their hands, cover their gashes,
Godly clefts, arms stretched, wrist over wrist.
To the north, a sand-blown wilderness
Snares time with a lover’s revenge.
It’s a dry land, the lingua franca
Is deceit, and thirsty lips clenched.
We keep pouring water, drowning our hands
But our fingers are never wholly cleansed
I can’t sleep when I’m lonely
Which means I am sleepless
Since being touched melts the lies
I need, and flesh is a butchered pig.
I’m waiting for someone to come,
Whom I hide from, a child like me.
Not even Jesus, Messiah King, knows
The troubles I’m in. As a kid,
I had to play dead in the bathtub
Where I saw my grandmothers kill fish.
I’ve often make promises to myself,
Vowing to say what I cannot speak.