I held that, indeed, the higher was better than the lower; but better than the higher alone, was the higher and the lower together. —St. Augustine ________ Work Online: Mudlark Salt River Review and again, Salt River Review Switched-on Gutenberg and again, Switched-on Gutenberg Arbutus and again, Arbutus _________ Biographical Profile at Poets West Directory _________ Available Books: First Credo Snail River Making Space for Our Living Precinct Kali & the Gertrude Spicer Story New & Selected Poems Greatest Hits: 1965-2000 26 Poems from Snail River _________ E-mail James.Bertolino _________ For more Poetry

James Bertolino Distracted Today something fell inside me, I heard it crash. For a moment I’d been distracted by the intimacy between autumn and sunset, and let go. I don’t know now what I’ll do, because there’s a kind of ambush happening and I’ve got to save what I can of who I am. Fouled 1. Not to say fouled, but folded as the wings of a downed kestrel, as wind gone from the oxygen bellows when the family says done. 2. But if you must, say it: a virtuous idea may be fouled by prejudices and need while the heart, fouled by fear, will howl and destroy what’s near. Life Path Rest Stops The priest held open the young man’s fly, airing out his nest of notions about love & the Lord. * That I care for you is unnatural, she said, & God will make me pay. * If you save the world before you save yourself, there’ll be no place in it for you. * My body pities me, she whispered, & pretends to be drunk. * So bereft of beauty, he found an undermining ecstasy in a mosquito humming near his ear. * Don’t breathe— this blossom has its own star. * Between each breath we learn to worship the next. * Love is the only answer to death. Mud Wrestling the Angels I’m warning you, this is a fantasy about angels. But first some preparation: it’s best to think how leggy insects, trapped dancing in golden sap, become esthetic moments fossilized, become amber. I may not have the time sequence exact, but every week, about 3 a.m. on Tuesdays, our entire class of questers would disrobe, then spread their limbs and torsos with molasses. Some needed help. Who it was first knew angels liked watching us move thus in the nude, move behind the sweet amber glaze, that I can’t say. But this was only part of it and, I suppose, was pleasure enough. The angels also liked the mud we made. It was a special mud, combined of gingerbread cookie crumbs and spirits. I’m sure you get my pun. Really, though, it was rum, and we kept it warm. We poured into a horse watering tub the sticky mix, that spirited mud, and they’d literally dive right in! We’d see the lumpy pond part as head and shoulders went deep, their hips and legs following. An angel might be submerged for awhile (some seemed to like it under), then we’d see shaped empty space emerge from the brown surface, pasty cookie smears clinging just enough so we could guess a celestial face, a neck long and godly elegant. We’d know they were smiling, and licking their lips. Then amongst us they’d stand, they’d dance. That’s how molasses brought the angels.