Today's poem is by Dorothy Barresi
The Tarrying Meeting
Thou God Seest Me.
Come to the tarrying meeting.
Come to the tarrying meeting,
we are tired of living here without you
swift-running in sunlight and the faithless dark
of Los Angeles, Aimee
"not so much a lady as a scintillant assault."
Thou God Seest Me.
All the priests have turned state's evidence,
the cops run the streets;
what cemetery angel could pin you down?
What lurid kidnapping
Come back in your high-button shoes!
For the junkie anchorites
have lain down with the tanning bed operators.
The transvestites, pre-ops, and go-go boys
hum like struck notes on a tuning fork, waiting:
saved. The baby lifted
from the crystal lab floor
leaves a shining trace.
You did not die, I think,
from sleeping pills, but from radiance sickness
and a lack of invitations.
Come back with your Bible and sword. Believing
we are the perfect congregation
to adore the lie you told
dressed in your sailor-girl cape
for which Seconal and supoenas were prescribed.
We're liars, too, lonely and afraid in ways
salvation seems, some days, designed to cure
(on others we are aware that there are many fine
Thai restaurants here).
Thou God Seest Me, you said,
to the Dreamland Boxing Arena.
Thou God Seest Me
to News of the World
like a brain in its lighthouse going around
the deepest apprehension of the self
forgiving the self
water drawn from that sweet well.
Listen to the voice in the whirlwind, you said,
O, to be in that gladness
in such weather
Where will you spend your eternity, Sister?
Ours was spent today on the 405
transitioning to the 101
after a landscaper's two-ton
broadsided the 1-800-Autopsy van.
Affordable discrete forensics
with the human touch.
No one knows the real story here. No one ever
There is a rumor like a river
that these expensive hills will turn
their backs on us;
one good wave
washes us away,
the movie deal of our life falls through.
But you drove the stakes of a dust-bowl revival
with your own hands
as though you were, by that magic action reversed,
withdrawing the nails & sealing Jesus' wounds.
If the cripple could rise
and swim to Catalina
under the tidal pull
of your radio hour, if tumors un-cancered
because there cometh one
whose appearance is glory,
and to this end you built a temple in Echo Park
bigger than anything else
that no longer stands there, if you are, like us,
false and true,
saved and screwed at once,
then surely you can heal us, Sister, hurry now
before we disappear.
Copyright © 2006 Dorothy Barresi All rights reserved
from Solo Café
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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