Lord, you have ruined evil
you have loved
before. Before.
And we are in love
with the tv
with love. With love.
With something that stinks
reeks like love
it reeks. It stinks.
In pieces go all our loves
to prostitutes and whores
who we do not know come sticky morningtime
when the sheets are pulled up off'
the corners of the bed.
And the walls are a chalky white
and i can't convince myself I'm me
but its my eyes that are red.
Lord, you make the morning
you rise with the sun,
you will. You will.
Your skill is subtle
to cut into damage
with sword. The sword!
And i am just myself
looking and waiting,
another. For us.
To gather all our loves into
a broken body, a spilled-out blood.
blood soaked into the dirt at the cross
is the sponge for what i've spilled.
is glue between lives.
and my solitude is no loss
when it is of one piece
with the God who died.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 5, 2010
travelling companion
drawing birds onto their shoulders
writing stories on each other's backs
etching trains into the stone floor
and pushing each other down scratched tracks
its been the loss of everything common
they've nothing between them but distance and steam
losing what's lost all over again,
setting out paper boats to find the ink sea
twisting grass into, out of braids
its been in the mountains, the plains, the clear air.
its picking up stones to see how they weigh
putting plucked crowns on heads that aren't there.
writing around the clouds with sea-ink black
and grass-blade pens from under the sky
hell finds an outline in the scribbled tracks
but there's a pregnant lady sitting high
on a bench in the passenger car
rolling down the line.
writing stories on each other's backs
etching trains into the stone floor
and pushing each other down scratched tracks
its been the loss of everything common
they've nothing between them but distance and steam
losing what's lost all over again,
setting out paper boats to find the ink sea
twisting grass into, out of braids
its been in the mountains, the plains, the clear air.
its picking up stones to see how they weigh
putting plucked crowns on heads that aren't there.
writing around the clouds with sea-ink black
and grass-blade pens from under the sky
hell finds an outline in the scribbled tracks
but there's a pregnant lady sitting high
on a bench in the passenger car
rolling down the line.
Sep 4, 2010
Pointers, Or Not
We are the thing
the people
with no thing
with everything
with nothing on our tongues,
everything is in our hands
and our fingers clinched down
so tight
they're screaming.
Point not lest you be pointed at
But look always at those fingers
those fingers that squish our food
it falls on the sidewalk in
pieces, this potato-piece, meat-piece,
veggie piece. juiced, pulpy pigeon meal.
Makes a salad, trash salad-bowl appetizer
fingers garnish like carrots
We're grinding these meals
into our palms
for later,
when our neighbor comes along.
for never,
because we moved our house to a desert.
the people
with no thing
with everything
with nothing on our tongues,
everything is in our hands
and our fingers clinched down
so tight
they're screaming.
Point not lest you be pointed at
But look always at those fingers
those fingers that squish our food
it falls on the sidewalk in
pieces, this potato-piece, meat-piece,
veggie piece. juiced, pulpy pigeon meal.
Makes a salad, trash salad-bowl appetizer
fingers garnish like carrots
We're grinding these meals
into our palms
for later,
when our neighbor comes along.
for never,
because we moved our house to a desert.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)