In Praise of What is Found Again The sea obeys and fetters break And lifeless limbs thou dost restore While treasures lost are found again When young or old thine aid implore. – Responsory of St. Anthony The newspapers herald this is the age of the individual. Weeks pass and disgorge the lost marginalia of my existence: keys, that ever-elusive sock’s return from AWOL, a promise ring from years ago when such symbols could steady the earth with the pause and lustre of a loose, earth-quaked clear. The present is a contemplation of what is: bearded men hawking once-upon-a-times, mis-strung guitars and braided everythings the sidewalks studded with beggars, their empty hats like hearts. To romantics, Main St. is made beautiful by use: the dark-carved street during midsummer brownouts; suspended, the smog’s particulate trumpets through our lungs. Like fingerprints, every tongue-print is different. This is for what comes to us through language: sun-struck, modern a demonstration of gunmetal, of words that gleam. St. Brendan and the Isle of Weeping The first fountain was still, silty with the red dust of this place, it incandesced under the last of the autumn sky like a rusted shield. Soundless, the next seeped from rock in a braid of many blues to a pool darker than the ring around the brown of Brendan’s eye. All around him: wind counting palm fronds, the tide slipping from the shore. Forty days sailing without rain yet he could not drink from either water. At dusk, the crickets filled his head with sorrow. It was then he heard the silence of the two fountains for what it was: to know the sound of the cricket in autumn is to know that suffering in its human form should remain unheard. Justice –after Lorna Crozier I make important decisions with help from a simple can of Alphagetti by composing earth-shaking sales offers in sauce-stained hues: DEAR KELLOGGS, I WOULD LIKE TO SELL MY SOUL FOR A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF FRUIT LOOPS. Other mornings, I aim for the Descartes-esque: I CONSUME THEREFORE I AM. Yes, the alphabet is making an all-caps comeback à la Heinz and you can’t blame the other multinationals for elbowing in: C for Coca-Cola Company; F for Ford… I’ll admit it was my J’adore Dior t-shirt that convinced me to attempt to sell my name on eBay for just enough venture capital to buy a swirl cone at McDonalds. Still, I’m getting better at owning what I say: letter by letter, the bill for my every word’s exact worth slowly adding up. Alvuquerque Barrio –transposition from “President Bush Meets with First-Time Homebuyers in NM and AZ” March 26, 2004 When you landed, the intended plenty shrunk into one discouraging moment: you fell to the ground and it met you like a husband, shorelined you to this part of the world permanently. Bright soil. No bushes. No welcoming band to put a tear in the eye either. The airplane returned to Mexico. To reason the past three years went with it seemed acceptable as the city crowds moved backward under popping cables, junk everywhere. Madmen on TV screens share terror. The savings you had put aside were enough to buy a telephone, yet your pockets filled with ideas instead of quarters: the role of the individual is to own a dream A house is like a cowboy hat, good for courage, but in the end practical as a relative in Mexico: something to save money for, then abandon when broke.