The Angels Come Unasked

The angels come unasked
And they lay their magic upon you
Just when you think you can’t hold on
Much longer

And then the angels leave
Without a word
While you are sleeping
Or busy elsewhere for a minute

And now you spend every evening
Sitting in a lawn chair on the porch,
Getting drunk, listening to music,
Remembering the angels, their peculiar magic,
Wondering where the angels went

And wondering why they left

As your eyes scan the sky

Imperious Vultures

She stares at me
from the slight distance I can manage
like some apparitional vulture

waiting for my soul
to die

as it has been atrophying
since she arrived
and sat imperious since
on the highest limb –

peering down
like a sovereign from hell.

And I think,
“tonight’s the night
she gets
her wish.”

The satisfaction of
her hunger
but not denied.

This life is a stinking madness
with its atrocious
lack of subtlety,

its tremendous
sense of pomp
and rigid tradition.

The thunder rumbles.
The mountains tremble.
God stumbles, slowed and drunk.
My brain cracks open like a nut.

And with that,
it is done.

She smiles,

opens those blood-red wings.

Bon appétit,

What Would the Neighbors Say

What would the neighbors say
If they were to look in my window this 2 A.M.
To find me sitting in my towel,
My belly protruding like an old man,
My hair wet and uncombed,
Typing out another plea to the void?

What would the neighbors think,
This coming Monday evening,
Hearing me singing, wearing my headphones
As they look into my always shuttered windows?
Looking in, half hoping to see some kind of massacre
But finding me shirtless in my pajama bottoms,
Drinking deep from a glass
As I attempt to type out pleas
To the void,
My eyes two hypnotized sheets of glass.

What would the neighbors do,
Maybe nudge each other and point
At the madman hunched over his computer
Typing what must most certainly be dangerous nonsense
Hyperbolic paranoid scribbles
Figuratively written in crayon
Or maybe his own blood?

What would the neighbors think
When I pour thought upon drink
Upon thought
Into my vague oblivion?
When I begin to talk to you,
This invisible woman in the room?
When I spin and dive into my bed
Mumbling your name with curses
And I Love You So Much?

What would you say
Upon looking in my window
And seeing me in orbit toward
My own fragile version of sustaining
And finding that I am all the things I write?

You would tell me
That I am very beautiful—
Just like you did
So many times

When you were really here.