Vigil II

I have gone somewhere,
where no one else has gone.
I have seen the worry lines,
I have tabulated every plastic smile,
I have felt the soul of fire in every
handshake.

I look up at the sky now -
the piece of it afforded us
residents of the parking lot - and can see
how it extends to every other borough,
and beyond.
I can see how I am small,
look down at my legs, and feet,

my hands, my torso, into my head,
and can see
the body of me,
the smallness of me,
and I can know my power.

We are offered insight,
and how much can we drink?
I have traded in cups,
many times a year.
I go to my shrink and come back
next week
new man,
every week,
two times a week.

How much can I drink,
of the Truth Cup, our grail?
How much wine, or tequila,
amaretto in my espresso?
How much truth imbibed?
How much libido?

How much Buddha?

How much nicotine, or God,
can I smoke?

I see my small body,
in this large world,
I remember the world itself,
is a small thing.
A spec of light amidst unfathomable darkness.
A dust mote on the table top of time.

So you think:
My god I'm so small,
I must fight.
With all I've got,
contending,
tight belt,
gloves.

My god I'm so real,
I must preach.
With all I am,
sermonizing,
totems,
goblets.

My work is to find my work,
and pour all of my self
into that work, and drown in it,
and drink of it, and fight for it,
and preach it.

In Catechism
they told us what were sins
and what were not.

At public school
they told us
aptitude and Xerox.

In the risky wisdom of the greats,
there are sprinklings of it, Truth.

For this is the body,
and the blood.
Eat this,
drink this,
and be made whole.

The greats were speaking softly.
But we were listening with keen ears.