Three Poems of Morning Theology
A Linus-Monster Triptych (from The House on Boulevard and Street) Preface Every morning, a sermon of paws and play.
Warm Vents and an Angry God
I remember the house breathing through long metal lungs, forced hot air hissing through the vents like some practical American dragon, its warm breath sweeping the floorboards, finding my ankles, scattering dust motes into constellations.
The Knock
The Herald tries again, with fewer titles. The monk responds again, “We don’t know him.” And the Herald tries a third time. This time using the forename of the emperor, describing him as "a mortal, sinful human being [who] requests permission to enter.” At which point the door is opened and the Capuchin monks exclaim, "So they may enter." “A mortal, sinful human being.” - part three of the Habsburg Knocking Ritual At the door of the ordinary day I pause - knuckles raised, breath held.
The Poet's Ledger
I chase a flicker in the dark - a word-moth brushing my thoughts, refusing capture but leaving dust like evidence in the air. The poem begins expensive - not in coins, but in nerve. A blank page waits like a market stall at dawn: crates sweating dew, wood smelling of fish and citrus, quiet with possible trades. I bargain with myself, turning out my pockets, paying in doubt, in hours shaved from sleep, in the bruised pulp of almost-said things. Then the wrestling starts. Metaphors twist like eels, slick, unwilling to be handled. Similes arrive …
