1

Air is full of the Holy Spirit
and I breathe it like straight O2,
breathe it plastic-masked manic,
breathe it like pine after rain;

still, I want, I want, I want--
and that must go away. Each day
is the Second Coming, each day
the dead reckoning toward salvation.

So, the envelope of the Spirit
goes on and on, holy ripple pushing quasars
past Palomar's eye, holy wave
to wash us clean beyond the night.

2

How simple the song of frogs in marsh,
making frogs in June heat
unaware of prophet's warnings,
they neither know nor care that

sun comes bundled for them,
that the straight line exists
from here to Heaven. What springs
from June ooze is full God

perfect in the moment they swim
or catch flies in their backwater world.
Frogs which replace them will be oblivious, too.
This is the point:

I am the simple one
afraid to be the great one
who walks out of the swamp and says
follow me, there is more than now.

3

If I were on the road
to Damascus I'd be happy waiting
for God's hand to slap then heal me;
if I were on Ararat with binoculars

looking at myself, I'd tell me to get on board
and sail. Anything else would be forced,
contrived as a carnival clown's tears.
If I were on the road

I'd stop at every Charlie's Cafe
for every waffle special, a bucket of hot joe
and give them the full shot, full moon or not,
of strong wind and great fire,

I'd haul my sorry ass to Kansas
to tangle with tornados because I'd know
I'm Heaven-bound anyway,
I'm breathing the Spirit anyway.

4

There in the corner, under the pork pie hat,
wrapped in spent Camels,
head filled with vodka
and Coltrane, the Holy Spirit

taps His glass to the unheard beat
beyond Trane's fingers, the ultimate
improv of low pressure popping
ears in Nags Head as a storm rolls ashore.

Night glow like New York from a DC-10
and breathes beyond sight
and the tap on the glass smiles
just beyond my grasp.