Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

The Violence Of The Cross

1.  The Violence Of The Cross

Late one night, over Dunkin Donuts and coffee, I made this offhanded comment about the crucifixion to my college roommate, “At least he [Christ] didn’t have to hang there too long.”  My friend was indignant, “What?!  John, let me tell you a little bit about a crucifixion!” And he went on to describe the horrors of the cross in great detail.  Everything about a cross-death was designed to cause maximum suffering.  It is, perhaps, the cruelest tool of human torture ever devised.  The word excruciate is derived from Latin words that mean “out of the cross.”

At some point during the description, I cut him off.  I was embarrassed and alarmed.  (continue…)

The Pastor-Beggar

The pastor-beggar drifted
‘cause the way is never clear when
the chips and blows and
glances form an idol out of fear.
He

bobbed along in bluster
till he almost blew away.
The ones they call his demons
said he held a hand
to play. So he

laid down his last dollar, kept
an ace down in a hole, till
the queen of hearts came
steady on and seared him
like a coal. Now his heart is

shreds and tatters and
his heart is filled with ruth where
the teeth of self-
deception gnawed
the corners of the truth…still,

the broken plate of comfort
that once served his precious
wish must, in time, become
a banquet on a fine and
costly dish. And

the pastor will be proven
by the testing of the years
as a beggar who gained
riches; as a king who
reigned with tears.