30 May 1431
Burn her. Tear out her tongue. Shadowy hooded magicians cough rites. Spittle of caste and chief. Brushwood sage. Screams pronounce the roasted aires. Toes churning in excrement. Sweat dripping from clouds. Recite mysteries. Beg forgiveness. Scratch signs with charred and crooked sticks. Grimace. Teeth crack. Hearts roar. Hands blaze. Souls rage. Eyes melt. Cremation ends. The gift Godsends is ashen shrine.
Nights In D Major
Curiously, I find myself standing
beneath the effigy
of your great draped mourning,
an atheist, invited,
quite by accident,
to the final Sunday service,
without a dime to contribute
or the daring to look up
and make eye contact.
The choir of winds pronounces
mass in the space between your
arching branches, waving leisurely
at the stars, alight with joy,
as if to say, alleluia.
I stand beneath you in my bare feet,
a tattered bathrobe covering my many
naked sins and transgressions,
and it in this sermon
that I understand
nothing can be adequately described
One has to come out from the dream
and stand alone under
the birch tree at 3:00 in the morning,
half naked and slightly crazy
to merely get a passing glimpse.
George Korolog is a Senior Vice President at a Fortune 500 technology company in San Jose, California. He is engaged with the Writers Workshop at Stanford University and has only recently begun submitting his work, one of which was published last month in “The Earth Comes First.” He has been an avid climber and mountaineer and also has a Masters Degree in Psychology. He lives with his wife and two sons in Woodside, California.