Noisome Silence

The silence chatters knowingly of words

unsaid—better that way—so rancor molds

into the blackened crust that solitudes

parallel lines in mathematical precision.

Cleanly, numbers waltz in dire solemnity,

calculate the morning of your algorithm,

stripping mystery from destiny’s illusion.

You’d change your numbers like your socks

to twist the sun around the earth—the counter-

revolution of Copernicus, yourself the navel

of the world chanting, “What a piece of work…”

to stone-stopped ears, statutes against deafening

sounds that clatter the cluttering of the silence

once cherished as the cherries plucked ripe

from swollen trees of distant promises.

Windows of Lies

Streaks on the window lie and you follow,

believing in the rain that never comes. Shut

up in the heavens—God’s curse until Elijah

shows up at the widow’s door, begging

for the last bread and oil, “Bake me a cake.”

Such is the arrogance of the prophets,

such are the rules of hospitality.

Without a choice, they both obey

lest the world collapse to anarchy.

Or so they believe—nobody bothered to test

the rules until after the Greeks had their day

and the doubts took root, cracking foundations.

You look past the lies staining the window,

scanning the view. No sign of your Elijah.

Betting the Rain

Cloudy, with a chance—always a chance, setting

odds, like betting would make a difference thanks

to Pasquale’s wagering. Probable cause of today

happening: one hundred percent. You can bet on it

and win if some sucker would show up—dumb

enough to take your bet. They don’t so you pocket

the day along with the cash saved up for rain.

You’re too thin-skinned to ignore the weather

the way the dog does—and the birds. Scattered

showers drive you to cover, fearful of showering

not your choosing. Spoiled out of the elements,

you create your own, as if control makes you God.

The house isn’t the world and world not the house;

how can you ignore the door where wind calms?

Laying Future

The rabbit laid her nest’s foundation

in the place the dog takes his morning roll,

twisting on his back and kicking up a canine prayer,

offering his vulnerable belly to his Alpha god.

The rabbit’s kits, if ever born, would prove

the dog’s snack, quickly gulped and gone.

The mother never knew the ground she sought

was tainted with the dog born with canine

teeth and lives their rule. He can’t help it,

nor can she in the desire to lay her future.

You live between the rabbit and the dog,

laying future’s foundation in another's yard,

instinct acting on the next minute’s breath,

next beat of the heart, next impulse to craft

a vulnerable prayer that your kits may live

unharmed in the roll of morning’s call.

The Day You Wanted Rain

The day you wanted rain, the dog wouldn’t shut up—

dog wisdom had cracked the Labrador knob of his skull

and forced its way out in loyalty to his humans.

We let him in and told him to lie down,

maybe he took that as a sign we accepted his call.

The day you wanted rain, the bird continued its chatter,

taking cues from the dog to make more noise than usual,

but it was only noise, the brain of a bird is miniscule

in comparison. And with its feet in the trees, not grounded

in the knowledge that seeps up from crevices of stone.

The day you wanted rain, the oak, eager in its height, stretched

hopeful leaves to wrestle pale sunlight from the cloud’s

avarice that falsely believed its storm-black center can pull

light, like a magnet, into itself. Its power is fleeting

unlike the deep rooted longevity of the oak.

The day you wanted rain, we should have stayed in bed,

allowing the dog to bark down the bird that clung

to the oak’s branches. Under the covers, fooled

by the darkness of the clouds that sunrise was late,

we could create our storm with natural causes.

Quantum Physics of Worry

You’d create worries out of dust mites

or pocket lint if God didn’t provide them.

Each breath awaits the inhaling of problems
that fill your frantic air with the energy

of the distraught.  Sisyphus had an easy time

with only a single task—the damned rock

upon an equally damned hill. That’s Hades—

this is earth, bound by the multiplier effect

of quantum physics and universal parallels

of an infinite number of worries that spin

threads through neurons of your brain

until all creation floods the synapse

with hopeless trials of control. Dark matter

doesn’t care.  Why strain the effort

when the mites and lint trust God?