Thankfully, not all of my poetry is autobiographical. I would be a wreck if my life even remotely resembled all of that which I have imagined. This present offering, however, First Class Dies Like All The Rest, is a snapshot of a period in my life when I was vainly trying to live life solely on my own terms. There were many reasons why that experiment failed, of course, but the biggest reason was that our Blessed Mother Mary was interceding for her errant son. I knew that then, begrudgingly so. I had icons and other pictures of her all over my apartment walls. At war with God, myself and my passions, my only satisfaction was short-lived and shot through with the bitterness of shame and guilt. Happily, God never gave up on me. He had Mary praying for me my entire life and here I am, writing another blog post and highlighting her maternal love. The darkness illustrated here only serves to make the lights of Glory shine all the brighter. Holy is His Name!

He was like a vampire on a day pass,

insulated within his cabin-coffin, fearful

of making friends with the light.

Mary chilled near the front door, refusing

to be straight with him or anyone else.

Still, she reminded him of so many enfolded

perfections, as nightly, he would assay another region

of satiny topography. Before the door, he thought:

“She sits well within my pacified imagination”. This

revelation conferred upon him a convivial benediction,

while the random dust motes playfully drifted through

his personal perimeter. “This is the night”, he thought,

“which will bring more pastoral remembrances to mind –

– Mary still on his mind.

As he bounded out the door, this Adam went,

while myriads of stars wept out of celestial sorrow in his wake.

His courage renewed, under the impudent moon, he was ready to face

the virgin night. The demonic paparazzi, happily snapping their ephemeral shots,

as he neglected to restrain his celebrity, smoldering still since last night,

lost in the panegyric midnight of his sinful world.