L.R. Harvey Poetry

ROAD SERIES Fooled by the Autumn illusion  of astroturf and the intimacy  that comes of a shared faith in the liturgical  repetition of a swing,  in the cage we’d openly confess our heresies: if you get her close,  Maddie Warren isn’t actually that hot;  don’t tell anyone, but Dr. Wilson has his moments; all things considered,  the dining hall hits more than misses.  It was fodder to fatten us  for the Spring slaughter, when at  Kangaroo Court we’d drag  each other by the proverbial ear to the back of the bus,  where four seniors sat the bench as judge and jury, one by one  fielding accusations  of low ERA’s, an overheard rejection, caught studying Saturday night, and other mortal sins.  Such were the observances, silently taking our sins on our chins until the air-brakes squealed,  when battered and betrayed  we’d tumble out to  file through the golden gates  of the Golden Corral,  where...

BACKDROP Somewhere the spirits crowd the smudged glass of our exhibit,  peering in as we mill about  or make love in the corner,  briefly nibbling on this  or that before we circle back. A few tap on the pane to see if we’ll look. Most of us  stare blankly, see nothing,  read a book or waddle aimlessly on about our business.    But the zookeeper is troubled by the few who quietly face the back wall,  staring at a panorama  of snow-tipped mountains, sea, a vast expanse of trees in the distance. A few even  bloody their noses trying to get there.  One or two want it so badly  the technicians have to smuggle  the bodies out before the next day's viewing. In the official report it's inked in as madness, but there is—at least among the inmates—a growing suspicion that it's the only sane way out.

MODERN NEBUCHADNEZZARS  The mythless go mad, howling for their own dog-eared place in a story, pawing through the ruins like the blind librarian after an earth- quake. Ours is a whimpering,   interior madness, what's wild in us so shackled by sanity  that we could never stoop  to see ourselves reflected in the well as we bend to drink, could never stoop to believing  the tall tale of a man so bent  under the weight of his own rationale   that he’s reduced to prowling   the wastelands like a beast,  sustained by whatever untamed green he happens upon as it fights its way through the thin  chinks of asphalt already snaking the newly-paved interstate going nowhere.

SOUP KITCHEN Take the bread and dip it  in the wine, twirling the mixture  into earplugs to drown out  the battlecry from the pulpit  rousing the troops to set out  to win the world,  love taping up our fists  as we hit the streets, pounding salvation into the homeless man  until we secure control  of the half-eaten burrito  he salvaged from the garbage bin,  cradling it close and savoring it  as our hard-won reward  while those who know they have nothing to offer file forward with open hands to receive a hot meal  somebody else paid for.

MID-WEEK REFLECTION The more I think  about it, the idea  of him which I find  most compelling  is that he is   not an idea but the  compelling, and we,  his thoughts, tumble  ever outwards until we meet our-  selves in the center.

  PARABLE The kingdom of heaven  is not a fastball.  The kingdom of heaven  is not a routine  pop fly.  The kingdom of heaven  is not even a homerun,  or if it is  then it’s a home- run not hit by you.  The kingdom of heaven  is a hanging change-up,  0-2, difficult to see  out of the hand and reversing expectations,  but, upon picking it up,  a gift, and one  you’ll see in your dreams  the rest of your life as you watch it  clear the scoreboard and bounce through the gates, the open ones in the back where they never charge admission.

VEILED To look at around and know  that every square inch is embered  with a simmer you can’t see  because the ash of everyday  is so thick in your eyes is akin to squinting down at coach  as he flashes the signs, which you know are aflame with meaning  and of the utmost importance, the game on the line,  but for one reason or other  hold for you no messages,  and there’s no one but yourself to blame for your cold, blank stare. The worst thing you can do here is pretend. Best call time, make your way  down the line, and repent,  confessing your thick-headedness as you chat with him, his hand on your shoulder.