Member Poem

Jacuzzis are holy. 
Garage door openers are holy. 
Back-up cameras and recycle bins—all holy. 
Putting the red flag up on the mailbox, waving at the elderly 
getting my toes wet with dew—holy, holy, holy. 
Keeping my eyelids open and trying to sleep like fish, 
signing my name with less letters and more scribbles, 
counting crows feet, counting yellow toenails, 
counting haircuts, counting plucked whiskers, 
counting constantly. 
Bookshelves are holy. 
Missing dust covers are holy, 
magicians and black and white T.V. shows, 
Penn Jillette theories and Andy Griffith justice, 
Uncle Walt songs and Ginsberg poems—holy, holy, holy. 
Drinking beer before noon, drinking liquor right after, 
drinking it warm (or on ice) with a friend (or not). 
Waking up drunk, waking up sober, 
waking up tired, waking up hungry, 
waking—always holy. 
Table wine is holy. 
Candle sticks are holy, 
dishwashers and cloth napkins, 
the folk art cricket made from wire and a railroad nail, 
rock salt from the salt flats in a salt cellar—holy, holy, holy. 
Opening an empty cedar chest to still moths and crumbs, 
staring at stretched cobwebs immersed in the sun, 
swallowing nests, swallowing nectar, 
swallowing chimes, swallowing saliva, 
swallows—always holy. 
Self-portraits are holy. 
Ceramic urns also are holy. 
Tape recorders and keyboards, 
drawing pads and gold-plated ball-point pens, 
calligraphy and stipple—holy, holy, holy. 
Unfolding a letter, unfolding a chair, unfolding 
into downward dog, from child’s pose, into corpse pose. 
Picking apricots, picking green grapes, 
picking out a husband, a shower curtain, 
selection—always holy. 
Twist-off caps, dresser drawers, remote controls, 
carpeted stairs, revolving doors, product recalls, 
keycodes, passwords, 
restaurant reservations, 
last-minute invitations, 
cell phones, voice recognition, 
land minds, and secrets—holy, 
holy word, holy water, holy book, 
holy soap boxes, bathtubs, soap dishes—holy, 
holy drains and draining, empty.