“Good art never settles”

Heidegger’s a fool
To sit and think so long
But Buber went to pubs
And invited him to come along.
Martin talked to everyone’s thous
While Heidegger read the room.
A metaphysician’s bar is transparent
People see light through glasses
Hegel never came in, dead by then.
But at least those first two
Had a nice dialogue.
One had their own experience
The other was floating round the room
Like a Chagall painting
Where nothing ever
Is settled.
//

//
We come to this bar
For our own reasons
Me to learn love
Or be loved or both
Some to escape boredom
Some to actually be alone
But we come each day
And somehow make this home.
Playing trivia, doing crosswords
And watching jeopardy
Or even playing chess in passing,
Beside an enormous unseen fireplace
Where everyone is welcomed
To gather each day.
Maybe someone will bring pizza today
Or a new puzzle, or a car wreck will happen
Or something. We all come here
For something.
Perhaps, as well
A place to keep life’s pulse each day
To make sure we are all ok.

//
Next door,
The mother and daughter
Live together alone.
They look like one another, by now
Aside from bones and age
They both smile kindly
While raking, reading or
Today going to the doctor.
She has taken a fall backwards
She awoke and thought she was a little girl
Her daughter holds her hand
And tells her they are going
To a play lot today.
The mother walks slowly through each new door
Hoping to meet an old boyfriend (or even Jesus)
On the play lot’s long slide.
//

//

A Priest’s complaint

Writing and prayer take time
You can’t turn the soul on a dime.
If you want me to prayer for you,
You gotta let me step outside time.
Don’t worry, I will stay aware of it, my dear.
I’ve never fallen off the Wire, but when I do
There’s always a safety net.
And besides, God doesn’t need my prayers anyway.
It just lets us talk.

//
Wheel-chaired by the end
My friend
Still dyes her hair red for life,
Wears cool hats for costume,
And keeps it funky.
Her body hurts worse these days
But she refuses
Style to leave her yet
And her wheelchair
Is just another prop
In her theater of life.
When my mom lost her hair
She immediately remembered her theater days
And the wonder of wigs.
It’s all about how thankful
You are for your hand
How you are enabled to respond
And not just become react-
That is, how everything is potential performance art!

Even death is an art.

//
I told them everything I knew thus far
The story was as I said. Relentless Love
Defiantly breaking in despite all performances.

//
Spider’s gossamer strands in evening glow
Are enough to know and see through shimmer,
And remember
Forever, in tremble

our endlessly glorious networks.