VARIETIES OF IRRELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

Living

Go ahead. Take the bait. Risk the hook.
Take a look. Because you live in churning
Currents where fins can do only so much.
So much what. So much of what you see,
Swimmy. Not that much, really. See what
Have you got. What have you got against
Waves. What have you got to lose.

Certain big-bodied tsunami swimmers
Don’t mind making waves in small pools,
Their butterfly strokes, freestyles, and kick
Turns impressing observers perhaps but
Gaining no friends. These bad neighbors’
Say, “You’re in water. You’re gonna get wet.”
Yet how often do fish crash, until dying?

Virginia Woolf drowned, but what really did
Her in was the randomness of what comes
Next. Perceiving flux, she employed it as a
Strategy, linguistic and narrative, and even
“Enjoyed” it as a worldview. A sentence may
Call for logic, but its direction can be thwarted,
And a string of thoughts forms a flexible bag.

Dying

I read the news today, oh God. It said
They gave this little boy a parade
Because he wasn’t born for living.
We call some people thin-skinned,
But this condition wasn’t metaphorical.
His skin couldn’t protect him, being
Thin as a butterfly wing but flightless.

My dad said we all become saints when
We die, but you can’t always trust your dad
Or his perspective. Perhaps only the truly
Dearly departed have advocates. You may
Say, “Oh God,” but this is not an oh God
Situation, just souls at the mercy of
Minds, let’s say, or of vocabularies.

When steroids reduced the swelling from his
Brain tumor, I let my dad take the subway
From Manhattan to Roosevelt Island by
Himself. Imagine the cops’ response if
He had gone, blipped, on their radar as
Missing, injured, or dead. Yet he merited
The dignity of determining his course.

Moving

Some aspect of that bus stop, a design
Flaw or feature, brings out syllables an
Otherwise silent woman shouts into the
Street as she sits on the bench, next to
Bags of stuff, maybe her belongings, not
Waiting for a ride, maybe waiting for the
Signal from somewhere to leave.

In another state, Captain Trips, aiming
To witness, wanders into the wilderness
He thinks he owns, finding what but
Brambles he parted last time or before
That, trunks and limbs looking as
Familiar as his facial features in the
Bathroom mirror back at the house.

As an adult you can decide which
Actions bring satisfaction, such as
Flipping a switch to turn on a ceiling
Fan when no one else is around,
Just you to enjoy the cooling, the
Swirling, the hum, which some
Call a drone, around the room.

Dreaming

A Chinatown restaurant is packed, but
The staff has left. You volunteer to cook
And find small bowls of chopped onions,
Garlic, vegetables. How will you stretch
What’s been left? You make one dish
And deliver it to a table, but there’s
No rice, or none has been cooked.

Your gray goatee showing, you wear a
Black cowboy hat and black eye mask
As the Candy Bandit of Midtown East
On Halloween and receive smiles from
Some. A small boy beams, lit up from
Inside like a jack-o’-lantern come to life,
Fired up for the costume that awaits him.

On a small stage on the Upper East Side,
Happenstance Theater, a troupe of five
Actors and singers and a pianist, perform
“Dreadful Episodes,” Victorian or Edwardian
Vignettes and songs inspired by Edward
Gorey’s writings and illustrations, themselves
Whimsical, filled with children and death.