Binding the Strong Man

And Jesus asked him, "What is your name?" He replied "My name is Legion, for we are many." 
Mark 5:9

The emaciated voice crept naked amongst tombs,

dark skin clung to bones set unnatural, broken and bent

body hijacked, thrown to the ground in convulsions.

Dark skin accented with violet bruises, crimson cuts—

a legion of scars collected dust, unable to heal.

This was past, present, and future.

Then the voice became a man, and the man ran to tell

a future interrupted, an empire disturbed, a prisoner free,

a corpse alive: ominous happy news.

The testimony came days later along the lakeshore,

the beach littered with dead pigs, black clouds buzzed above

each rotting carcass, clothed with dark green hairs

undulating in the current, hooves lifted up,

bellies bloated and bobbing, bodies partially decomposed,

A drowned army washed-up along the Galilee.

And this was good news of great joy for all people. 

What Poems May Come

The orcas were all dead

stomachs vomited out

lying exposed on the rocks.

But it was ok, the children

informed me, it was Tuesday,

these things happen on Tuesdays;

tomorrow will be Wednesday,

then I’ll see—everything

will be back to normal.

I dismissed my class,

reclined back in a barnacle bed,

draped bulb-kelp over myself

prepared for a nap. A purple crab

scuttled out from under the covers,

found another purple crab, and the two

scuttled off together. Two beautiful friends

who decided to cameo in this dream

told me they understood,

it had been a hard day, but

I had done something real good,

purple crabs are rare, and don’t often mate.

This was a special day.

I looked at them, confused by their presence,

decided that this would make better sense

after sleep. I awoke under a flannel comforter,

concluded that even crustacean love

is nothing but mystery, also,

I should not eat curry so close to bedtime.

July Rain (Nothing Lasts Forever)

For newcomers,

the first summer spent

away from home

(warmer and colder parts

of the country or globe)

begins in grumbling:

Jackets in late June!

Three straight days of rain,

It’s July!

Where is the sun?

Some who grew up here

suffer from an annual amnesia,

every July they marvel
at the unseasonable wet.

But I remember Fourth-of July’s

spent shivering under a wool blanket

damp from drizzle,

waiting for fireworks to finish

so we could pile into a minivan,

crank the heat, and go home.

I remember red and yellow leaves

against blue skies,

swimming in late September,

crisp and tan lawns

waiting for October

to finally bring back the grey.

Summers here are often tardy

but seldom truant—though

it is September 27^th,

and I’m in shorts and t-shirt:

I wonder how well I’ll remember

in a raincoat in mid-July.