Prayer

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St. Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,
and do thou,
O Prince of the heavenly hosts,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan,
and all the evil spirits,
who prowl about the world
seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
 
i hope folks don’t mind my feeble atempts at poems it is all i have left–nicolo

There is a draw, an attraction, like
a magnet rotates to the north.
There is an orientation to our pole.
Not like any north or south poles, or poles
which have an opposite. god has no direction.
Love goes in perfection. godward.
From soil to wheat, from wheat to bread
from bread to man. An intermediate.

For a man to say to himself. This is my body.
Given to life to all. Take eat, this is my body.
For the seed to say to earth, come crush me
that we both may live in the bread of life.
That attraction. That angel’s compass
that walks…on water.
Add a poor sailor shaking in the storm,
waiting for a handout.–nicolo
 
i read my life a sleepless wake
a chapterless unfinished book
no index shows me where to look
it opens where the bindings break.

Pages stained with greed and dope
still wet with sticky wanton lust,
ne’er an honest line of trust
spilled ink blotting out all hope.

Idle words and wasted paper
no story or a plot to thicken–
and so much the soul to sicken,
a fractured poem without meter.

Like the writing on the wall
beyond my feeble reach to edit
not one letter to my credit
my naked sins exposed to all.

O christ take my pen in hand
blot out my madness with your blood
substitute your holy word,
i have no other place to stand.–nicolo
 
May i not be judged by mine own knowledge,
O you who knoweth all things.
Do not condemn me
because i speak,
O you who dwells in silence.

i wax bold as flames of heart
melt my tongue.
It drips from my lips
in meaningless puddles
on filthy streets.–nicolo
 
Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Lord God, thank You for giving this person such keen insight into what it means to suffer. Your example for us, when You died on the cross, is great, and we thank and praise You for showing us that suffering is not always something to run away from. However, Lord God, we also recognize that You are merciful, and that You love us beyond all comprehension. We understand that You, if we only ask You, will take away our pain and suffering, and restore us to health and well-being. I ask that You would do the same for this person - console and aid them in their sufferings, Lord Jesus. Remind them to offer up what sufferings they experience. Through Jesus Christ, Our Lord, I pray. Amen.
 
One should recognize the turning points in life,
i don’t, they turn and point the other way,
As if my life saw me coming and
crossed the street and slipped in an alley
the grand pissoir back
door to the bar
and backed in

Cards suffle in the cash machine
and spits out two hungry hookers
be good to my friend she says.

Crazy nite, wonder if i shouldn’t just lite
the house on fire
just sit and burn
but i can’t stand the heat
and it’s not my house

i could leave with nowhere to go
starting nowhere
doesn’t make it seem worthwhile
to get back

i should have saw it coming but
it saw me first
and disguised itself in words and
hid behind a skirt.

Too many trips taken just for the ride,
tasting and feeling human virginity
sowing fields strewn with snares and thistles–
Joan of Arc leading late harvesters
as my crop runneth over.

i should have seen it coming
laike a shot in the head, an unavoidable
re-branding of Cain to restlessly wander
in the land of the dis-Abeled.

One should recognize the turning points.
the crosses in the crossroads.
The necessity to cross traffic
and the need to walk
tho the signs say don’t walk.

And the rain is pouring down
on the high and the low,
from my side i pull
a pack of luckies
and lite one on my searing brow
the rain like thorns.i glance up,
the marquee flashes
“forsaken”
i wander in to nod.

i had not dreamed it’s coming
no god damned revelation
need avenge me.
The serpent stikes his prey
and leaves the fruits,
Jesus saves,
the bandit loots.–nicolo
 
Sister of secrets
my eyes are dim with cataracts of pride and presumtion
as i meet you here on this bridge
over the river of time’s misfortunes.
i scent the perfume of your wisdom
mixed with the odor of my primal nature
and the stench of debris, dead flesh
and rotting dreams the river brings.

There are only shadows of the distant hills of childhood,
that watershed of becoming.
Here waters flow less pure.
Along the banks too many crumbled idols temples,
some recently adorned with old flowers and fruits of quick pleasure
some used as dumps for trash
others as shelters for vagabonds and thieves
riffled for abandoned treasure.

Man must live and shelter is a need
decayed leaky roofs
plugged with muddy excuse and plaster
scant protect feeble hearths.

In the gurgling of the river is faint music
vague song heard as in a mind half sleeping.
It stirs a small bird deep within me
so long lulled by melancholic keening.
A cold pitiful bird
that once joyed to eat from your hand
moist crumbs of love and gentle singing.

Wake me sister, wake me. Now is the time.
Sing loudly to my life again.
Drown the buzz drone of fat indifferent flies,
shake the webs and insects from my brain.

Quick launch this rennaisance of flight
before the eve’s repose drags my wits to slumber
and i fall again to sleep consoled
with lucid dreams of lovely florentine nights.

Hurry sister, hurry.
The days grow short the river sluggish
the air is chilled and sping longs far upstream.
Worms of summer fed on noble thoughts
now spinning winter homes
ne’er tasted nectar, known epiphany of flight.
Hurry sister, worlds now tipping wrong their axis
may bring about an endless winter night.–nicolo
 
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