The Vatican Rag

     “Vatican toughens rules on sainthood,” Headline, Los Angeles Times (2/19/08)

Some headlines grab you by the throat,
Some by more primal parts.
But this one knocked me for a loop—
(Brash theocratic arts).

The last pope’s liberality
Created quite a stir.
He canonized five hundred saints—
(The most to date—by far!).

But worse than that, he bent the rules—
Cut short review time spent.
Beatified a host of folks
(Most, just in time for Lent).

Mother Teresa, all in all,
Was J. C.’s humble student;
But Pius Twelfth’s grim Concordat
(Dismissed as merely prudent!)

Creates some questions for this church.
The Fathers must take pause,
And delve more deeply, search the lives
Of new intercessors.

Sainthood is rare, and should be so.
So let’s slow down a bit.
Or risk a Heaven SRO,
With no place left to sit.

And that might sour older saints,
Turn situations odd—
I wouldn’t want disgruntled help
Petitioning my god!
                          (2/20/08)

Posted in Religion

Soup

     For E.P.E., D.M., and J.J.

When the whirlwind struck, sucked our spirits dry,
Three women, versed in grim and stunning fear,
Moved, quietly, to float our sinking lives
On gifts of soup. Not frankincense nor myrrh,

Not even gold matched the formulary
Compounded (magic’ly) to heal our woe.
First came Eileen’s night-time delivery—
Rich chicken-vegetable ambrosia;

Next, Debra’s golden bean, thick, nourishing—
Leeway to face another storm-lashed day.
And then Joanne—ah Joanne—avenging
Angel—brought three brisk, scented separate

Brews. These soups (despite a fragrant bloom of farts)
Both served our flesh and lifted up our hearts.
                                         (2/18/08)

Note: Some of you may remember the Magi (who followed the star of Bethlehem to visit the infant Jesus) brought gifts: frankincense, myrrh, and gold.

Posted in Friends

Happy Poem

     For the guys down at the Venice Beach paddle tennis courts

                           I
Relatively few were killed today
In Sudan, Iraq, Kenya, and Chad.
Even Pakistan was mostly calm.
Bright sun, warm air, pert women—not bad

For a winter weekend at the beach.
A British priest, mentioning Islam,
Stirred holy wrath. Despite mass murders,
The U.S. is reasonably calm.

Ernie says my poems are dark; Paul says
They make his belly ache—“Why hurt us
With your dreary, dank, infernal buzz—
With your bleak polysyllabic words?”

The sun, the sea, pert women will endure;
So too, th’explosive rage—our Earth’s manure.
                              (2/10/08)

                   II
     February 11-15, 2008

I really tried to write a happy poem,
But two days later things devolved to shit.
The Grammy’s dominated page one—numb
To the news of 21 more dead, hit

By a car bomb north of Baghdad—Sixteen
More died in Nineveh, wild Fallouja
Adds four. Jonah, of course, reluctantly,
Long since warned Babylon (hallelujah!).

Meanwhile, Kenyan machetes settle scores.
Zimbabwe toilet paper costs much more
Than printed money. Chad wants that grim horde
Of Darfur refugees out—now!—or war!

All this, and much, much more goes on despite
The bright, warm sun—rage ready to ignite.
                                        (2/16/08)

Posted in Illusion, Politics, Religion

Freud Redux

Much modern poetry
Mutters lament,
Makes dirge
Our common song.

Dead, all pomp
And circumstance.

Blame plaguey politics—
Or simple discontent,
The bleak shroud,
Civilization’s
Holiday regalia.
          (2/6/08)

Posted in Poetry (What is it?)

Voodoo Biochemistry

     Upon the occasion of J.K.’s triple bypass surgery

I pride myself on being smart and cool.
I understand decay, mortality.
And yet, I cannot fathom the misrule
Of mind trumping corporeality.

I know I’ll die; all mortals wear away,
And though I do not welcome death, I feel
No terror at finality. I say
This often. But (I know now) stress congeals

The flesh! Can this be? Biochemistry
Rules—we know the organs fail, hormones
Fade, peristalsis cramps, things go awry.
But how can my mind, acting quite alone,

Imaging my wife’s distress, plant duress
Sufficient to freeze my neck? Sure, I feel
Concern—but sense no conscious stress.
So much for consciousness! The stress looms real!

My ectoplasmic mind asphyxiates
What matters most, twists flesh, and molds my fate.
                                                       (2/5/08)

Posted in Illusion, Joan, Wisdom

Life Style

     For W.F.

A friend, down at the paddle tennis courts,
Sleeps in an ancient, rusty, skittish van.
He’s rail-thin, coughs too much, yet comports
Himself with an authentic proud elan.

For food, he mostly dumpster dives, although
Familiar with church hall bologna spreads.
His worn clothes are clean; his fierce plaint night-cold.
Though homeless, he’s remarkably well-read.

The other day, he told me platinum’s
Price jumped over sixty bucks in one day.
“Why the devil would you care?” I ask. Dumb
Question! “I’ve got a few ‘coins’ stashed away.”

This with twinkling smile. He’s got fifteen grand
In cds, owns an acre and a half
Of high desert land. An ATM grants
Access to incidental funds. Riffraff,

Clearly, does not describe him well—and yet,
He eats and drinks discarded musty trash,
And shivers, despite copious assets.
He greets passing, chic women with panache:

“Hola muchacha!” Who are the heirs he’s
Grimly saving for (our Bill’s mystery)?
Why does he endure the bleak misery
He bears, embrace such frugal husbandry?

Undoubtedly, he’s shrewd (and, apropos,
The richest sane poor man I’ll ever know).
                                                (2/1/08)

Posted in Friends, Poverty