Prayer Song for the Living

This song for the living starts in the press
Of jackets and flesh
The steam, of hot breath rising
As in dreams
And of the living it sings.

In the celebrant sunrise crowd,
I heard a voice,
A small voice,
Begging that we look around
Until a child is found.

Two minutes until the word spread
End to end
Ear to mouth and eyes all bent
And finally the child sent
On the endless, cheering wind.

And as the great man took his due,
A small wind again blew, and
Parted better than divinity
This curtain of humanity
To let the paramedics through.

The wind rises, cries, a cheer
To see the great man near,
Above the crowd a squirrel leaps
Snatches a twig and keeps aright
And the crowd cheers that too.

This prayer song grows wild and loud
Now
It chants, beats its heart unbowed.
This is our world now,
We celebrants of the sunrise crowd—
We are the sunrise now.

Suck Life

Workworkwork,
eyes crusted
static self sucked like motes to a screen.
The body is a tool for the performance of duty.
Money is beauty.

The body must be draped upon a sofa after,
two hours at least,
steeped in lukewarm TV.
Massaging lover's feet if you've got the money
(hands upon her tummy).
Or drink. Fuck a lot.
Read magazines and spend time with loved ones.
Don't be afraid. Every moral has a story.
(Every story's amoral).
Every life has some suck.

Sometimes fingers itch for the earth
(they say workworkwork)
the threaded aroma.
The body wants to work that threaded aroma,
To suck life from the land of its birth.

Terminal 4

At the airport, scanning for a face. This is how you fall in love by e-mail, waiting empty-handed and checking the terminal number against the moist paper worn into the lining of your pocket. 4. The crowd thins out, but it's okay. She just landed five minutes ago. Right now she's waiting for her bags. It'll take a while for her life to catch up.

Calculus

When he woke up his throat was fucked. This was the third time in three or four months, so he knew what came next: fever, vomiting, sleeping twenty hours a day until the sweat washed everything out, and he was fired. The boss already said next time you’re out.

Thank god you don’t have a family, John. A couple guys there have wives and kids, you know, they’re proud at lunch, but sometimes they whisper their fears. If they fell. If their ankle. You know. There are a thousand ways to lose. You flex your muscles and go back to work.

He stood up and lurched for the closet, the only candle in the predawn room. If he can get his boots on he can get out the door. If he can get out the door, he can get on the bus. If he can get on the bus, he’ll be there when the pickup comes. The boss will see he’s sick, he’ll send John home and he won’t get paid, but he won’t get fired either. He gets a flannel on. Gets a hat on. He leaves the layers, the waffleweave and the t-shirt—with this kind of fever you just sweat straight through and end up colder than you need to be. What you need are your boots and your will. And your health.

Four flights to the front door. Only a long block to the bus.

The doctor already told you, man. A tonsillectomy. Five hundred bucks and a couple of hours. “That’s not bad, Mr. Smith. Best price in the world.” It’s all just calculus.

Amoxicillin and tap water.

He lies under three covers trying to force the sweat out. Dr. Doctor said it looked like rats had been gnawing on them. Two hundred and something for the look, then five hundred to get the little oysters cut out. Three months more to night school.

“Computers, that’s the key. Know the computers, know the world."

Is this story different if his name is Juan?