note: this collection, about the author's experience on the Irish subcontinent self-published in 2001, is presented here in its entirety.
i am the son
the bodhran’s blunkety beat:
ancient drummer, cut like a pencil,
inscrutably secure, curtained
by contrails of tobacco.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
i am the son of erin fair
who ran with finn macool’s mighty legion.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
i am the son of erin fair
who praises all things joycean.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
i am the son of erin fair
who knits ballads beneath stormscapes
and plucks harpthreads atop peat cushions.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
i am the son of erin fair
who spies on leprechauns at cockcrow
and pleads for the banshee’s lament at dusk.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
i am the son of erin fair
older than the youngest woman
of beare.
babumbadabumbadabumbadabum
a diver at sandycove
balanced; ethereal. arms
outstretched, forward facing-
like his own expectant nation.
a sudden, yet measured, leap.
delicate complement
to the borderless bounds
of time and space.
quarter-moon human arc,
the fleeting hush of an august breeze
coaxes newly bronzed skin
deep
into the limegreen sea.
the beach at kinsale
frozen, ahistoric. lilliputian
needle rocks, timeless daggers
wedded to rugs of greedy sand
by triassic umbilical cords.
stubborn limestone archipelagos
retaining ramshackle crab colonies.
the pindrop pattering of fervent feline feet
as they track dinner.
chimed echoes of a nomadic whale’s lament
reminding the myopic sea
of its obligation to altruism.
the steel-toed staccato of an alien tongue
animating a duo of predictable lovers.
a free-spirited schooner
melting into the stormbent edge.
the humble spectator reclines, upon a throne of stacked seaweed,
overwhelmed
by this most eloquent
of panoramas.
a reading at dun aenghus, inishmore
(for john o’flaherty)
wool-capped statue:
testament to the everlasting soul
of mystical pagan poetics.
that classic, serenely confident
aran gaze, words captured
by an unbiased breeze
which mingles the trans-global lust
of outsider tourist deodorant,
the parochial grit of manure,
and the peat-sodden spirits
of invited ancient ancestors.
true peace: as rare as a diamond in the rough,
the peasant’s only dream
and the capitalist’s biggest nightmare.
true love: elusive like a sunny smile
draped on the lips of some faceless passerby
in the sin-wracked post-modern concrete sprawl,
as distinctly welcome as the prodigal son returned
who holds a basketful of cool jewels
in one arm and the oft-contested answer
to life’s sole genuine riddle in the other:
where did it all begin,
and when will it all end?
murals: belfast/derry
these caustic emblems
of color-coded hatred
can hope soon blossom?
bobby sands
he did not starve for
food only the promise of
another country.
ubiquity
“hell is other people-” jean paul-sartre
struck wordless by the concerto of wind-
connemara’s exile as sweet as sucked mangoes.
perhaps, the peerlacking din recalls
wagner’s martial strains billowing across
your decadent hamburg. the corpses of successful jews
dye the harbor the hue of rotten apples
and pastel squares the tint of vomit lime.
momentarily: bomb crater swimming pools, a fave
playpen, while tonguing g.i. given hershey bars.
it is now 1979.
the desperate melancholy of the dock,
pebbles on a moist, gray bed.
clutching your judasized frame
like it’s an abortable fetus: they won’t know
the brain they must expunge. limp
paper ticket marked: anywhere,
but not here.
scarecrowesque, thigh-deep in the bog’s embrace:
arms half a flesh compass
pointing in no particular direction
body moving towards none. especially,
the glance. one eye,
focused like a missionary,
targeting the trusting sheepmass.
second eye, cold as a coin,
aimed at fellow homo sapiens sapiens-
launching pupil-spawned hydrogen bombs.
they are quite ubiquitous, ralph. not even this
last, the most ghastly of centuries,
could exterminate them forever. not all are selfish,
mean, or bitter. here in ireland, there are surely fewer.
kilometer stretches with only you and the nude,
teeming marsh, nasal hints of roasting turf,
the sight of seagulls trysting
around a cumulus steeple.
you could never forgive them, ralph-
perhaps, they are just evil.
things fell apart: a rejoinder
the eye of ben bulben
pierces me like a flame.
suddenly, reluctant inhalations
quiet degradations of my lungs
from sedentary tourbus exhalations
which swim across the somber churchyard.
after these spasms of smog,
an uncorrupted view:
“cast a cold eye on life, death.
horseman, pass by.”
fitting epitaph for such an optimistic
pessimist. just like all of his kind:
tireless disciple of ye old murphy’s law
(comical statutes re. fundamental human insecurity).
i retrieve an ample tome
from my back jean pocket. amber bound,
with hardly a splotch or tear, capturing
sunlight that christens.
random page at once selected;
the following verses appear:
“the center cannot hold…
the falcon can no longer hear the falconer…
mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
of course the center cannot hold
because the center depends
on the brutal subjugation of its margins.
image: the global bourgeoisie, shored up in a remote courtyard
with every known material luxury at its disposal.
Impenetrable granite walls,
forming contempt-chiseled borders
to omit the cheated rabble.
of course the falcon cannot hear the falconer
because the falcon is an overzealous prodigal
and the falconer was long ago martyred
because she dared to expose such tragedy.
image: the grainy ashes of Truth, spattered
around a patch of derelict cactus.
humanity, being well beyond shouting range,
even with an xtra loud loudspeaker
remains ignorant of the crucial fact
that her master
is a corpse.
of course mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
because the world is too savagely ordered
to appreciate the true meaning of the term.
image: sunsplashed nubian nomads,
reveling in the true democracy
of impermanence.
things fell apart: since
peoplefolk lost heart,
wickedness getting its start
when settling down first bred
disconnection, self-indulgence spreading
like a cancerous infection.
when will there again be
a prophet’s resurrection?
“the best lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity.”
of course the “best” lack all conviction
because they are too middle class
to transform their own privilege.
of course the “worst” are the best
filled with that rudimentary ardor:
fiery speeches, organized propaganda
and armed uprisings
will soon win the evolution.
ode to a single face of neglect
beer-battered bodhisatva becomes
bray’s bitterest bum, badgering
bigoted bespectacled businessmen,
boisterously bellowing bureaucracy-bashing,
below-belt banter, benevolently
burning bibles, barebacked, birdshat,
blistered, bunioned,
bested, betrayed, burning bacon basted beans
bedside, by babbling broken bottle burdened brooks.
a brief encounter
(with seamus heaney)
multiple time zone separation
across a cosmos of cleavage:
“that poem is my favorite,” i mutter gently,
pointing like a tour guide.
“oh,” comes the distant response. “ar yeh
frem deh-ree?” sudden hint of animation.
“no, i was just a visitor there. stood on the magnificent walls.”
him: suspicious lofty glare, peculiar
to pampered academics.
me: lacking visible authority.
I’ve never been beaten up, verbally slandered,
forced to reside in a slum, or attend a third-rate school
just because
i was a pope lover.
“dar wuz an artacle en deh new york tames. bah
shaymus dane. aboot ur skooldeez en deh-ree.
ded yeh say et?” the torment of indecision.
“no” an apocryphal retort means I am not a real,
live”n”breatheyourart fan. “yes” would be
a truthless attempt at kissing
nobel victorious arse.
“sure, it was a great piece.”
why do we always sell out
in front of our heroes?
an immigrant’s tune
the unreal drone of a zither
taunts the arrogance of grafton street.
those graceful fingers that humanity forgot
beneath the savage din of hydrogen bombs.
that ruddy gypsy smile that could illuminate
the blackest of caves. he came here,
to this public grave, just to earn a few pounds
for his momma to save. a welfared refugee
does not win much sympathy, declared some old pensioner,
as we groped for a handle on the bus.
i glared at this wretch through alien eyes.
you might have been a busker
in the lower east side, at a time
when the irish in amerika
were disposable tampons.
carving out subway tunnels and piling up skyscrapers
could not satisfy your whiskey habit, colm.
it is so much easier
to strangle a fellow victim
than to embrace him.
it is so much more attractive
to do the wrong thing.
but i only worship this young immigrant,
and bid his fair instrument sing.
the butcher’s day: kilkenny
you can never conceal
your meat massacring manifestations.
those globes of sweat
with a high alcohol content
that yelp from shoulders and legs,
here and there,
an ignoble splotch of bovine effluent
marks tattered levi’s like a bullseye, the pair
you saved up for. much of your adult life
spent in one reeking prison where misery fornicates
with a single predictable joy: past evening’s
pub adventure reminisced with craven relish. that fight
with joe magill that almost was
because he said something offhand about the missus.
the continents of smoke that crushed dreams
and imparted tumors. pool table failures
and dartboard victories, that fifth pint
you were so certain
would be the last.
wild west (kilronan style)
conspicuous difference,
curious mutation:
the vibe felt sans
the exact same backdrop.
cinematic rolls of tumbleweed clumps;
ominous clicks of spur-pairs
stamping out the panorama
of a dustlit horizon. that strange melange
of smoky saloon decadence.
one eminently corruptible hoary sheriff
and his loyal band of dimwitted deputies.
gunflexing bandits and piranhacal card sharks.
isolated wives and frowning harlots.
hopeful hawkings of survival essentials.
here:now:the curious mutation.
quick darts of yard dogs
across dung-spattered pagan-born boulevards.
whipcrack trots of over-the-hill horsehooves.
the determined anarchy of an international local crowd
rushhoursubwayjampacked inside the powder keg
of a heavily nicotined pub.
four bribe easy clueless cops.
a quasi-costra nostra of aimlacking island men,
prone only to drunken rumblings and sinister gossip.
women, young and old, caught between
the scylla of prickly-haired nunhood
and the charybdis of silently moaning fertility
is the recipe for domestic misery
held hostage by an ever-dying turf fire.
at each turn, a two-faced entrepreneur
displays “genuine island knits” factory processed
by tear-soaked young girls in some vietnamese sweatshop.
lawlessness, opportunism, frustration:
there:here:now:the curious mutation.
memories: kilmainham jail
speckled sunwebs infest bloodmoist
insurgent walls; a captive’s plaintive chant-
“saoirche, saoirche, saoirche”
vibrates down mocking corridors
making sparks that fly to buckingham.
swait jaysus aye canna hardlay swalla
oh’ breeth aye um so moohvd boyo.
sin embargo, este lugar feo es muy importante en la historia del pais.
flashclickadvance.
geez. look at that. wouldya look at that. geez.
wall you kin bet yer bottum doller dat one feelz outta place.
okay his great grandpa was a samurai warrior
my great uncle a coffin ship survivor.
(unintelligible).
tell about mister irish hero one more time please?
scuse’ me where is the young lady’s room?
that broad desolate yard:
chairlegs sink into gurgling mud
under the welcome burden of his beating conscience.
one last omniscient grin, then the slavish
colonizer fingers squeeze hatecarved triggers.
outside: low-hung peasant heads, emaciated screams:
“hav marsey, hay’s woondad fer fucks sake.”
ah well if not the brits then the anglo-irish bourgeoisie
would have kilt him still it’s significant
they shot the very best last sanctified fourteen all.
they should adorn our currency
not anybody else.
(last night of paddy pearse):
final words prove to be the hardest.
my candle left with very little wax,
my pen almost run out of ink.
minutes into seconds suddenly shrink:
“gold i haven’t piled
nothing of this i leave behind
my wish to be remembered by a child
by something said which pleased his mind.”
newlywed wife will spread this one around
to the crannies where our sons and daughters are found.
hope’s the only cure for the stubbornest frown,
may history court the martyrs of this usurped town.
newgrange, mid-november
a half-hearted sun tries to encompass
the entire snaky trail. tennis shoe
tourist trods, eyeborne ecstasy
stretching across the peerless canvas
of a thousand tons of expertly stacked
neolithic migrated rubble.
how hard, those countless bog births, that
arbitrary streamside sanctuary kept permanent
until resources would deplete, the hilltop an arrogant
throne. most able days of a pathetically brief existence
snared in the vise of cruelest irony: building majestic
homes for the plethora of carcasses that any
population group acquires, reinforcing the notion
that where one is going
is infinitely more important
than where one is now.
some diehard pagan tour guide informs his new disciples
of a special oddity: on the winter solstice at dawn, a single beam
of light can bore the entire length of the passageway.
“do people pay to experience this?” snotful, cigarette-coated voice,
probably a new jersey accent. my backpacking amerikaness fails
to distance itself substantially from her sewer-dwelling sensibility.
“yah, war bookt ap fer evry solstace untel 2008.” probably,
no peasants will be among the group of eyewitnesses.
thoughts of spoiled celebs and crooked politricksters,
crammed like bugs into an impossibly small space with no light,
roof held up almost by mere faith alone
(for ancient genius is so often discredited in the current hyper-technified age).
pity ireland does not breed earthquakes
with a penchant for appearing
on days of unusual sun alignment.
liam o’flaherty
always for every
underdog never for his
eternal foil.
nurse’s strike, 1999
oh, what a benevolent, backstabbed mob,
tight like a school of endangered fish.
the chain-link net of craven corruption
fails to pall the groundbreaking scene.
anne, 29: wind-sculpted rustic face, cainmark
of the spailpin engraved onto permanently hunched shoulders
and tattered feet not permitted the luxury of extended inertia.
her hastily constructed homemade sign serves as a beacon,
lava-red letters announcing:
“give us what you owe, bertie. say no more to low wages.”
joan, 44: mothering capricious eyes, seminal freckles
erratically spaced across snow-pale flesh like confetti,
granddaughter of an evicted tenant farmer manifesting vocal revolution.
her weapon of choice, a glinting microphone, recalls rosa luxemburg
before the flock, adoring peers clingwrapped to every sacred syllable:
“da tame fer justas haz cum, et haz.”
(ubiquitous exultation, chorus of agreement).
“way ull no how impartint we ar ta da well bayin a irish sociatay.”
(further excitement, the fruits of successful demagoguery).
“way werk too minny ars, fer too lattle pay.
way ar expectid ta poot ap wath et ferever?”
(frustration climax, highlighted in both waterfalling sweat
and furious prophecies uttered all through the crowd).
“na matta wut, way moost stick tagetha untel way git wut way wunt.
troo tick an tin, i sez now.”
ah, the glory of simultaneously tackling multiple oppressions,
a symphony of impassioned chants and flaming invective,
righteous anger flowing from springs which have bubbled to burst.
the bold victims of centuries of debilitating poverty, sexist church institutions,
abusive alcoholic male figures, and cheerlessly submissive fellow females
coming to definitive enlightenment
under the bodhi tree
of a flimsy hospital canopy.
ti joe watty’s (around nine)
cheesy pop banality that could turn even me
james taylor worshippin da into rip van feckin winkle
blares through obnoxious amps. slimly-veiled
whispers of frustrated tourists coerced into cavedark corners;
only locals can bask in the light, the mark of authority
stamped upon their windbroken cheeks.
we came to experience a genuine session,
a native gaelic musical expression.
bodhran drums, accordions, tin whistles, spoons-
a fiddle or two would be such a boon.
no slight degree of disappointment blossoms
when some un-dynamic duo of blowhard anti-bards
takes the stage geez they could never hope
to charm an elevator music promoter.
so you say you’re fed up with being fed
chieftains christy moore wolfe tones solas
clancy brothers sharon shannon dubliners dervish
pogues lunasa and countless other dedicated preservers
of this seaslapped republic’s greatest artistic legacy
(if you don’t count it’s novelists, playwrights,
and composers of poetry).
just give it to the wee tourists, cuz the bastards
wanna hear it. otherwise, your pound-starved publick house,
they won’t feckin come near it.
night-work: kilkenny
the dribbling agonies
of the washer-up:
peninsulas of petrified plate crust;
caffeine-stained mugs.
reservoirs of fetid pot goop
battalions of gluttonous bugs.
in due time, nightly,
spread-out high rises of chipped dishes,
lipstick-smudged pint glasses
indicating shrewd getherpissedfast dates.
for the hapless kitchen slave, routine
is the only sure avenue to sanity,
mind free-floating in a sky
of intangible possibility (because labor sans soul
does not demand attention).
my chosen comrade- some bulldog faced teen,
acne caked, still hungover from last night’s
ecstasy club binge. always one to join
that solemn procession of disgruntled irish youth
in its most predictable ritual- pub to pub, then club to club,
heavy consumption of whatever drug might be around,
week’s wages drowned in lukewarm ale.
two lines from orwell suddenly materialize,
upon the canvas of a freshly scrubbed tray:
“a rich man is just a plongeur
with more money in his pocket.”
martin chuckles at the reference;
i frown, then fantasize.
work is useless, most of the time, because luxuries
are so unnecessary. the slight irish elite,
flashing its bloodstained commodities before our downcast eyes,
dining on unpronounceable foo-foo foo-fah “continental” dishes
wishing they were european
instead of islanders.
james, the pear-faced expat chef, sometimes drops morsels of beef
on the floor, a surface that would shame a pigpen. that crackly
limey cackle, followed by a choice “fer a wee bit xtra flaver,”
as said fleshchunks are flipped in the air like shillings,
landing in the core of the trembling pan.
perhaps, the world’s western toilers, too worn out, angry,
and frustrated to cultivate hobbies,
become easy prey for their well-arranged deceptions:
television programs, professional sports, ubiquitous
liquor shops, oneinamil lotteries, conveniently placed dope dealers.
the small part of the day left for freedom
is ruined by the dictatorship of escapism.
it is hard to nurture effective social convulsions
when so distracted- this they know too well.
we fall for it all
because we are brainwashed. we fall for it all
because we are miserable.
when will we stop falling for it all?
perhaps
i.
world, if you were to end
tomorrow, perhaps
i would not be real upset.
poverty crinkled flesh, unruly locks
mountain climbing in every direction.
the raspy voice that belies
endless fag addiction. and those impressions.
first to trenchtown:
(one drop accents)
“dem cyaant kill god. babylon mus’ fall, tis’ written
for i an i. vampires shall pay
for the wickedry dem inflict on me people.
jah rastafari haile selassie i king of kings lord of lords
conquering lion of the tribe of judah.”
then to somewhere in the mississippi delta:
(air guitar emphasis)
“wells I think I lost my woman, yeah,
i thinks I lost her, cuz I don’t got another dime
ta spare, and the man he don’t care. i thinks she
done took off, once and for all, oh lordy.”
world: if you were to end
tomorrow, perhaps
i would be happy.
you would always remind me of how your people
(who are everybody’s people) were inspired
by the amerikan civil rights movement.
principled non-violent righteousness meeting
it’s ill-fated march to selma within a few square slum blocks
on a sunday afternoon in 1972.
it was malcolm x who said
that you have to talk to a man
in the language that he understands.
protestant imperialist thugs and confederate neo-colonial tyrants
fluent solely in the rhetoric of cowardly mob savagery,
only able to communicate though clenched fists,
pointed gun barrels, and ticking bombs.
ii.
the way she crossed her legs:
pretzelesque, a fairy maiden
in some forgotten legend of yore.
“what’s your name?”
cliché diving from coy lips,
attempting to smother
the rattling din of
the express train from belfast.
“sinead. wut’s yers, luv?
me: not caring to respond.
suddenly lost treading choppy water
inside the endless cavern
of her unreadable memories.
how odd:
not supposed to date a prod,
but she did it anyway, paradoxing
the confessional wishes
of angst-burdened dad and mum,
her school friends reacting
like stoic question marks.
and then there was his brood,
the truly unsalvageable. so steeped
in petrified hate that you would need
a mile-long instrument to measure it.
through orange-rimmed glasses, looks
of promised rejection. him: nose bent,
eyes bloodied, because trustworthy cronies
discovered the awful truth.
when can we just be people again-
not religion, race, or ethnicity?
perhaps no crystal ball could ever see.
until then (if?) just let me float
adrift, clinging
to a hope-forged log.
brendan behan
too many spirits
made you confess to being
an irish rebel.
a young irish mother’s lament
“she was a song that nobody sings.
she was a house ransacked by soldiers.
she was a language seldom spoken.
she was a child's purse, full of useless things-” michael hartnett.
double burden: breathing walking talking both trying
to make sense of life in an unjust world little bitty entities
sprung like pop quizzes out of a single pulsating orifice
that i too penetrated with the rhythm of a cyclone
us swimming in unbridled previously unfelt cosmic ecstasy
at least no new babies this time that’s right no more nine month long
strawberry cheeks while navigating omniscient streets
where old pope-fucking prudes garbed in hypocrisy
glare at your gorgeous bulging belly with a most nefarious admixture
of horror and scorn and parasitic young men with crooked fangs for smiles
stare with smoldering lust because they wish they had gotten in there first
and fellow young women just let their eyes water up like tidepools
thank jaysus it’s not me what would i tell me ma?
but I will soon erase the residue from your dayscares
and blot out the impressions from your nightmares-
i promise.
jack: progeny uno: pugilistic bulge,
right at the biceps, premature preparation
for sooncome angry male frustration. eyes: prismatic,
lit up like a firefly patch, too hopeful
for their own good. not from my emigrant sperm, this one;
rather, his a parochial pa, the blood of the ancient ashen sufferers
traveling through a husky mass.
katie: progeny dos: wry baptismal smirk,
focused on the lips, early seen revolt
against subordinated decades to come. hair: clumped,
disorderly like an unyielding mob, too neglected
for its own bad. not from my emigrant sperm, this one;
rather, hers a parochial pa, the blood of the ancient ashen sufferers
traveling through a velvety mass.
you are, my darling, like the forsaken saint:
left alone, with far too many trials to pass.
why?
(for frank o’ keefe)
the icicle torments of undiagnosed schizophrenia
announced through the ceaseless flutter of cushiony
cheeks, a stuck-up anti-social quiff
(each hair one martial thread, at war with his neighbor),
pair of certified santy claus eyes slinging
suspicion outwards, and done-over soliloquies like
“aye dohn goh owside” whispered in stark,
cadenced groans. me: not one to not agree.
the world is mean; people commodified paranoids
too self-insecure not to label each other.
hallucination: the mystical boulder of sisyphus, authentic joy
lingering intangibly on the summit.
as camus would say, “it’s always the same thing,
over and over again.”
not getting to where you want to be
because where you want to be
is such a profound mystery.
what is so absurd about absurdity?
that it takes such absurd pleasure
in its own replication.
rarely, does he trod beyond the walls which bear
his soulmarks. packs of cluttered fags, a pint of bitter,
sometimes, food. chopstick frame indicates not very often.
giving up because he has to, forsaking any chance to be understood
to revel in the casual crucifixion
of anonymity.
i attempt to explain a single encounter to him.
paul moves in with vincent because theo thinks
it will be good for his brother. in the south of france,
where the sun is like a toaster. one night, in a bout of unsanity,
post-self mutilation, vincent meets paul in an arles alleyway.
razor, moist with the martyr’s blood, is suddenly lifted
against prized amigo. a quick step back.
surely not me, future immortalizer of dusky south sea maidens.
nothing comes of this, i assure him. vincent relents
and takes off on his way, into the starry evening sprawl.
“wha aboot pall? aye main, da stoopid cunt didna
try ta help hes mate?
is it always somebody else’s fault
that we are so abject?
oh, those paintings that would burst
like giddy firecrackers onto an unworthy world-
sunrimmed tropical landscapes; an androgynous
rock star splashes in a fountain of youth. pairs
of smitten pelicans sharing fluorescent fish dinners.
what it all means, he should never tell.
such obvious indications of a credible bodhidharma.
his earth-shaped heart will be kept inside an emerald box
in some impossibly distant fog-veiled shrine, exact whereabouts
revealed to only the purest of disciples. why
did you come here? must have been by choice.
a debt to compassion. jesus descended when the romans
took their authority for granted. siddhartha arrived at the exact moment
that the bodhi tree was beginning to surrender to mara’s lightning rod.
john brown swooped down because amerika needed a reminder
that its most peculiar institution is called apathy. bob marley showed up
to prove that one part african
and one part something not quite as original
is who we all are.
these are more than mere men, fleshbone fallacies.
so what precisely is your ordained mission?
service as a walking lighthouse, amidst the stormy thrall-
exclaiming to those multitudes
who delight in calling you sick
that they are truly the illest of all.
an accident, on o’ connell street
now: frayed olive oil skin;
snapped scissor limbs
loom spotlit before the steel curtain
of lorry largesse.
congresses of stunned pedestrians
with no hope to suggest.
then: primal tire scream;
one rattling mediterranean plea
single mistimed leap
from bicycle to concrete.
at once, everywhere
(yet unacceptable)-
the omnipotent pulse
of death’s heartbeat.
a rainbow over letterfrack
mutational; towering. polyhued
half-halo sanctifying both
bog and bay, beams extended
like unrolled tape. a boisterous
leprechaun dances a shadowy jig
with a hapless immigrant snake.
of course, my camera
is still not working.
on the giant’s causeway
in finn macool’s lair
nature sees much more than just
orange and green paint.
irony
the puddle of gurgling blood is so thick
that you can practically swan-dive into it.
spurting, geyserlike, from a three-inch wide bottlegash.
usually, an irish male rite of passage.
but this is different. jim is gay.
three heartless decades of relentless phobias,
expressed in schoolage finger-pointing
and scornful adult stares; adolescent blackeyes
and twentysomething shoves.
women, fellow victims of pope-ordered subordination,
your only (in)consistent native allies.
so enter me: as we meet, post-disco,
on a despair-cobbled clifden street.
two dubious heterosexual hands reach out;
hesitation, then exultation, upon the realization
that i am his amigo. “what the hell happened?”
faint whimpering explanation:
“coupla cunts attackt may jus now. didna lyke may
chattin wit dare berds.” tears caked like mud
beneath slightly mascaraed eyelids.
omniscience/joycelike epiphany
(but the guru never penned a story about a queer).
the true reason for over-aggravated, perpetual
xwily bigotry: jim has more girlfriends
than any of those lads combined.
not so much that they are afraid (being ignorant anyway)
of clandestine blackalley anal rapes.
this poor fella wouldn’t even squash a cockroach.
no. more like primal envy; egos threatened
lashing out
with reliable whips.
dr. ian paisley
(according to who you ask)
if a catholic:
of course satan’s chief
lieutenant would be anglo
saxon protestant.
if protestant:
of course our fiercest
spokesman would tell catholic’s
they are satan’s spawn.
me (an atheist):
of course true heartless
bigots are better off six
feet under the ground.
an elegy for pre-industry:
visions of dublin on a cloudy day
magic carpets of smog adorn tense mirror streets
and emanate deferred proletarian predilections
for poshly post-trinity suburban flats
rimmed by broad, expertly manicured lawns,
fronted by nile-long driveways storing a glut of ritzy cars,
and overwhelmed by enough screaming, overfed tykes
to generate a quasi-generation of future corporate fodder.
an unwashed trio of newly dispossessed steel artisans
passes out “save jesus” throwaways in quietly desperate back alleys
sprinkled with discarded syringes, as a new grocer from bengal
counts his bountiful blessings with an alabaster abacus
bought for a king’s ransom at a neighborhood charity shop.
about a half-dozen juvenile welfare state offenders
kick keane-fueled fantasies across the mossy unkempt folds
of a puritanized public park, barely missing a duo
of uncondomed supermac’s clerks, while a bag lady mum
of thirteen hopelessly itinerant merchant seamen
screams bloody murder at the dail
for its vacuous promises and cunning deceptions.
a pupil from slane wonders aloud if tajikistan needs english teachers
with a talent for conflict resolution, as a befuddled burnedout barback
heads for a sergeant pepper sorrow drenched bistro awash
in retro pretentiousness. five very wrinkled pensioners clad in nothing
butt nicked trenchcoats prepare to do the full monty at a body-odor
caked bus stop, while eighteen allegedly self-made yuppies
congregate at a fish and chip shop as if it were a holy shrine.
a bevy of rape-roped parish priests gets tarred and feathered
by the reliable omniscience of the yellow press, as the three-job
holding cashier of a buzzing lotto office muses over the morality
of a state sponsored contest that rewards luck instead of merit.
a slack-jawed temple bar fiddle player delights in his diminutive audience
of guilt-soaked tourists, scantily stockinged schoolgirls,
and ancient men using vintage ‘ra rifles for walking sticks.
seven sadistic street sweepers stage mock jedi knight battles
with their skinny brooms, while a veritable army of neglected pets
swarms around a fallen hamburger. one highly regarded theater owner,
sans his showoff african wife, places his new benz in the hands
of a whining, pimplestained valet, as twenty-six visiting portugese artists
duck under some conveniently placed tent
to avoid a kamikaze seagull’s excremental barrage.
a newly pubertied history fanatic masturbates nine times in a row
so that he will have enough sins to repent in the crucible of the confessional.
a freshly impregnated adolescent soap star
ponders whether an abortion on foreign shores
is desirable given the predictable domestic consequences.
an eternally drifting carpenter enters into an extra-marital affair
just to have something interesting to tell his kids,
as an unceasingly sedentary seamstress dumps her hoary husband
of five decades for a conniving, preteen kosovar refugee.
and:
amidst the wreckage of eternal strife,
the poet hangs,
triumphant:
a wizened scarecrow
guarding the orchard of life.
i am (still) the son
the uihleann pipes’ screechy intention;
antique handler, cut like a cricket bat,
fearlessly exposed, stooped
before an unquenchable fire.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
i am the son of erin fair
who mingles with connolly’s fabled masses.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
i am the son of erin fair
who quotes oscar wilde in all of his classes.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
i am the son of erin fair
who cooks colcannon over an open flame.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
i am the son of erin fair
who bears a corkman’s peasant name.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
i am the son of erin fair
a restless nomad
for the whole world to share.
oohrehoohrehoohrehoohreh
