(Meeting called by Michael,

Gabriel on notes)

If Hell is empty, then Heaven is, too–

Every illustrious soul, every dearly departed, 

has started down God’s mountain,

picnic baskets swinging. 

The angels try to understand;

they gnash their teeth

of pearly white. 

Everything had been perfect–

the picnic tables antless, 

on every red and white tablecloth, every checker 

checkmarked.

How could the humans foresake paradise

a second time?

How could they abandon 

the flawless infrastructure

of their apotheosis?

In Purgatory, Judas and Jesus

embrace, wheezing 

from the walk.

“Do you remember–” says Judas.

“Do you remember–we were so young–

that time, with the fig tree?”

Jesus laughs, turns cheek to hide 

the trembling of his lip.

“Would you like

another glass of wine?”

Michael looks at the empty chair

in the Celestial Rose Conference Room.

If Lucifer were still there, 

he would crack a joke.

He would rest his hand on Michael’s shoulder, 

plasmatic eyes gleaming.

He would say, Cheer up, Michael. 

Heaven was good enough–

for government work.

Maybe the picnic tables 

should have had more ants. 

In the river, Michael’s reflection is 

backlit. Behind him, the locks on Heaven’s gates

gleam, pearlescently.

In the empty picnic grounds, 

he contemplates 

the slow unfurling

of a single, white 

wood iris.

May my eyes be soft on myself,

humorous, dark, and wry. 

May I see myself truly—

hold myself wholly. 

May I be the channel through which the rainwater flows,

the needle’s eye through which the grey silk passes.

Let God rest in me, 

spirit and body

one bridge,

one indivisible celebration.

Forgiveness scraps one thousand eyes 

better buried beneath sodden loam.

Plant them, and in the rainy season, 

they will sprout

a profusion of new leaves, darkly shining.

Swallow me whole, God. 

Love me like you love the ginkgo leaf

on the cement overpass,

ragged and rain-soaked.

In the anemic sideways drizzle, 

it gleams, pale as butterscotch

and gold as a trombone.

If we do not hold the wall

Then that Eternal City, that land where your fathers died, that land of Aeneas’ pride, your home, yes, that Rome— 

That Rome will fall.

 

If we do not stand our ground and guard the land those brothers found, then the Gauls

Will scale the walls, will sack your home, will steal your bride, will take your home—that’s it, your Rome— 

We hold the wall.

 

If we do not keep foreign treasures, each beyond all worth and measure, held in trust, (for safekeeping, by their betters), well protected within city walls, 

Then our temples will be looted, and all our Gods will get booted and our white towers will be overthrown, and Rome, that’s right, your Rome—  

That Rome will fall. 

 

When the tweeting, when the twiddling of Nero’s fiery, fractious fiddling is drowned out by the singing, by that ringing clarion call

Of the Vandal, and the Goth, and the Gaul—then Rome, the Rome that was your home— 

That Rome will fall.

 

Out of the walls they built, out of the seven-tiered tombs of Troy, the barbarian dead rise, draw veils across the stars, and cry out our curtain call,

Those once silent sullen shades are now humble hungry mean, and they ravenously dream—of a Rome where everyone is free, of a Rome that never has been yet but still could be, a home

We hold the wall (but that’s all, that’s all.)

 

The dead mumble in the dark. They say that without the wall

There would be no citizens and no barbarians, only one home, a single Rome.

Why hold the wall?

When this Rome will, (when this Rome must,) fall.

Now comes the daybreak, biting and cold.

Now comes the morning unending.

Now comes the eagle, 

The eagle.

The eagle.

Then comes the day, frightful, alone.

 

Do you regret it, Prometheus, I wonder?

The pile of fat, the pile of bone. 

Do you regret it— 

The defiance, the yearning

For something yours only, 

a people called home?

 

Your chains are unbreakable, 

for me, only human. 

I hit them with hammers,

I hit them with fists. 

 

Blood of a god,

Blood of a mortal, 

Spills on the mountain,

The air wet with mist.

 

Do you remember, Prometheus, 

the days that were painless?

When you shaped me from clay—

When we made flutes from old bone?

Do you remember the time before 

Hurting and waiting, 

before days upon days

Of blood, and cold stone? 

 

Now comes the nightfall, biting and cold.

Now comes the darkness unending.

Now come the hearth fires,

Brilliant,

and blazing.

When you see them, remember:

We’re never alone.

To harvest the root of fire,

you must pry back your eyelids,

and listen, as the wild cat does,

stomach growling.

You must walk backwards for a thousand miles,

until your boots break,

and your toes peek out like hatchling birds

begging for worms.

You must pull back the skin of water

and make, of it, a cloak.

You must forget yourself –

and make music

from old bones.

breathe

like you mean it

consider

the catch in your throat

the swell of

the abdomen, the na a sal

pa a SAGACHOO – – –

damn it.

you’ve sneezed. already.

consider

the… whistle, the er

snuffle, of

(allergies, you know)

focus

on the breath.

(your dog is whimpering outside;

the microwave hums)

inhale, a

sloww exhaalaation 1 2 3 4

(your mother is eating, chewing carrots

in the room next door –

what was that she told you,

about not smacking your lips?)

For long I’ve said

I live in Hope

but Hope’s no place to be –

it is a traveler’s destination,

full of pickpockets, bad restaurants, and

overpriced accommodation.

Why spend your life

window shopping for that great

World-to-Be?

 

You can’t afford the rent,

let alone the mortgage.

Enjoy the Moment;

eat in weekdays;

there’s always time

for a weekend away.

When I was young I loved Lucifer,

that red gold morning star. I adored

the glinting immovability in his eyes,

the bone sharpness of his teeth.

What John Wayne was to you,

the devil was to me:

perfection, in a nutshell –

so he is, and was –

trapped, frozen,

too willful for permission or permeation

from a world whose living breath

is God.

Intransigent and intransient,

he would rather be consumer and consummation incarnate

than the artery and artillery of Heaven.

Once inspired, he aspired to the throne of God,

now dispirited, he will not respire again;

he would rather expire than conspire

with the will of God.

TO MY DISOBEDIENT STUDENT, IN RESPONSE TO YOUR LETTER:

First, the unusual result of the spell was your own fault, for not casting it correctly, and even then, for modifying said spell ineffectually. I told you to kill a lamb, and not a common household spider. And certainly I told you to cut its throat, as well, not to spray it from a distance with DEET. But you chose Renfield’s path, and now all you’ll ever have is that – this common household magic.

Have you even considered what you have lost in your squeamishness? I gave you a rite and recipe for true power. You could have given your very whisper the strength and weight of natural inclination, awoken the long-since sleeping. You could have untwisted the threads of space and time, reordered the cruel hierarchies of man and nature, acquainted yourself with, or even interrogated, this world’s errant and most ancient gods.

Before you start to draft your reply, recall that I’m aware of your thoughts on the matter. You think it’s wonderful, how the laundry folds itself, how you always know just when the soup will boil. You love the way spices taste richer, the way the mist lingers in your garden in the morning as though waiting for you to arrive, the way your singing, though to your ears no more melodious, can make your infant sleep softly in your arms. Perhaps most shameful of all, you have boasted to me – with no shred of irony or even remorse – that after twenty years, you have finally managed to keep an orchid alive. A miracle, indeed. Had you heeded my teachings, you could’ve brought it back from the dead.

You have always been, at best, a tolerable student – painfully slow, and all too keen to tangents and to scruples. This last incident is almost enough to make me discontinue our lessons entirely. The proverbial straw on the camel’s back, so to speak. HOWEVER, given the fact that I have not, as yet, received a more promising student, in spite of frequent advertisement, I have, below, attached your homework for our next monthly session. Perhaps, in the course of my efforts to turn you into a more admirable sort of sorceress, I have neglected your penchant for, if not proficiency in, Green Magic. Don’t disappoint me again, Viola.

Please read the introductory sections in the Green Magic Grimoire on both Herbology and Potions, and prepare the supplies recommended for the first two spells in each. I am attaching a vegan-substitution guide for witchcraft, given your recent, unfortunate quibbles.

Regards,

THE GREAT AND POWERFUL WIZARD, NECROMANCER, ETC., MR. ALBERTSON