via dolorosa -- Poetry Grace and Insanity

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Date Posted: 07/ 2/04 8:25:41am
Author: mirror man
Subject: via dolorosa

Now slowly begins the silence.
No, they left nothing at his feet,
but simply missed the calling that day.
The cause: he was no god,
and they observed the operation on his sanity,
a viewing from the gallery
and remoter places, cameras humming,
as something shiny peeked through the eye
and scooped out their souvenir.

No question was sweetened as they silently ate,
but was the ascendant communication of pure love,
all the quiet and knowing minutiae
that comes from it,
a lopsided symbiosis one way:
an eye on one end and a mouth on the other.

If such things give him reason for being,
still he avoids the healing,
happy with the lie that shut windows
somehow expel grace,
the lie that hating the self is love and reality,
and too,
that they who love escape the knife.

He is a stranger, and stops here and here,
as without reason,
a vague net tangled
hanging frayed over prepared stations.
He will give up the hate and grudging separation.
He feels it and is to do it,
that which is nothing of them.
But it is always dangling on the ground.

So the window shuts,
the camera hums,
and they eat and eat,
eye to mouth, face to face,
blood, flesh, bone, and all.
Station, operation,
communion and consummation.

But closer now, the truth, the nail.
He is driven to hate the leaving,
but only feels it and is driven little.
He is contaminated, an alien repulsion.
And now the hate comes on and knows the empty seat,
and he stands there holding
his skin: avoidance and solution both.

He sees himself, and absorbs the bold frown,
wrong that he is always away.
He feels it shallow on his finger tips:
now it is always done,
and now it is always wished,
and now he gives so little.
The value of dying lingers.

And now the camera swings around.
And he must stay and wait,
as seeing puts its mark on him.

It is one pace along the new via dolorosa,
the way of pain without grace,
rich with silence and knowing.

copyright 2001
by Scott Montelauro
I do now put this work in public domain.

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>Now slowly begins the silence. >No, they left nothing at his feet, >but simply missed the calling that day. >The cause: he was no god, >and they observed the operation on his sanity, >a viewing from the gallery >and remoter places, cameras humming, >as something shiny peeked through the eye >and scooped out their souvenir. > >No question was sweetened as they silently ate, >but was the ascendant communication of pure love, >all the quiet and knowing minutiae >that comes from it, >a lopsided symbiosis one way: >an eye on one end and a mouth on the other. > >If such things give him reason for being, >still he avoids the healing, >happy with the lie that shut windows >somehow expel grace, >the lie that hating the self is love and reality, >and too, >that they who love escape the knife. > >He is a stranger, and stops here and here, >as without reason, >a vague net tangled >hanging frayed over prepared stations. >He will give up the hate and grudging separation. >He feels it and is to do it, >that which is nothing of them. >But it is always dangling on the ground. > >So the window shuts, >the camera hums, >and they eat and eat, >eye to mouth, face to face, >blood, flesh, bone, and all. >Station, operation, >communion and consummation. > >But closer now, the truth, the nail. >He is driven to hate the leaving, >but only feels it and is driven little. >He is contaminated, an alien repulsion. >And now the hate comes on and knows the empty seat, >and he stands there holding >his skin: avoidance and solution both. > >He sees himself, and absorbs the bold frown, >wrong that he is always away. >He feels it shallow on his finger tips: >now it is always done, >and now it is always wished, >and now he gives so little. >The value of dying lingers. > >And now the camera swings around. >And he must stay and wait, >as seeing puts its mark on him. > >It is one pace along the new via dolorosa, >the way of pain without grace, >rich with silence and knowing. > >copyright 2001 >by Scott Montelauro >I do now put this work in public domain.
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