I bought fifty votive candles for him.
When only one remained, his forty-nine days
in the bardo had ended. I invoked
my force majeure clause and burned that
contract that had entrapped my entire life.
The Capitol Rotunda, circular hall, immense dome,
and at its eye, a massive fresco:
The Apotheosis of George Washington, the President
rising to the heavens. A dangerous vision –
above the people and playing at God.
Ghosts ask “Does it trouble you that
you haven’t done more with this marvelous
life God gave you?” “No,” I reply.
“And it doesn’t trouble me about all
the sadness and loss God gave me.”
A young boy seeing visions around him –
God in the window, angels in trees –
writing them into poems and painting them.
In life, pictor ignotus, considered likely insane,
knowing that imagination is human existence itself.
William Blake “Christ in the Sepulchre, Guarded by Angels”
I am poor in spirit. I mourn
the meek, pure and hungry.
I fear none of us will inherit
the Earth. No mercy and no peacemakers.
No heaven and no God to see.
Soundtrack for this poem