Today I desire less debris

Celebrating yet another anniversary We summon the lift, go high rise and pop our ears on the way, walk to room 4614, the 46th floor of the hotel. We muse about a suite on the 50th floor.

It is harder to write poetry when you are rich. But how would I know? I imagine that rich life is about desire more or less. And today I desire less debris, less of the indecipherable tangle. Less of the jumbled alphabet. making no sense inside me.

What am I doing here? People in Haiti are dead dying, grieving, starving and hunting for loved ones, and if they have the energy, they are looting the few things left.

Do I really believe that mine is yours, my friend?

Do I believe that when I am here with 'Healthy Breakfast' and room service, leaving food because it is excessive, extravagant, exorbitant, and such a short time from the evening sumptuous meal at No 35 restaurant just one sleep ago; do I believe all will be well?

Stripping the family altar In a past season, it mattered what was on the table. Now I see with quiet eyes the cloth is frenzied. The creator has the mind of a spitting fire frightful synapses, black and purple, hell all over.

The candle is first to go; the last time its molten fragrance will waft to heaven to honour the saints, prophets, zealots. The flame extinguished lightens the room.

Listening Angel goes behind glass in the cabinet where, to be sure, she will guard us with her porcelain eyes.

Next the crucifix capturing the naked moment suffering violence, arms restrained and wide-open childlike. Oh God

the body is cold I run my fingers over the hands, feet, thorns, the lips which spoke I come so you will have life. I lay it down gently as if it hurts him less.

Lastly I strip the excessive purple, cloaked across the whorled and unbleached wood. Round and grainy, the table top suggests a host of things, never ending to one raised in symbol and the cycle of days. I look at it, raw and unadorned, and kneel, moved by the bread it is to me.