I Am an [The] Author

When you read this
You will think to yourself,
“this speaks to me.”
This writer has spoken to me
He knows me too well
It’s like I’m a fish out of water
Layed bare for my en
[de]tr[ails]ance to another dimension
A revelation.

When I read this
I will think to myself,
“that is disgusting.”
This writing has disturbed me
It’s makes me uncomfortable
Like a compound fracture of the heart
Gushing out on my sl
[eeve] ippery slope
An emotion.

When we read this
We will think to ourselves,
“this is pointless.”
This page might as well be blank
Where is an eraser?
It’s like I can do better
Jotting down my pr
[ecious] ayers
For correction.


Sleeping with the Enemy

I’m getting laid
to rest
to bed
to infinite sleep
the slippery slope of slumber
the night of naivety is nigh
and the head that rests upon
the pillow
is a rushing river
for the slippery salmon
to exert, to exhort, to ex nihilo
to dream, to dress, too drab
was not our Zen the babbling brook?

This is a one night stand
up routine
down guillotine
to wrest
to dread
to wake is to rake
the life is an autumn leaf
lonely lusting for shimmering
to leap, to land, to love
to Christ, to crush, too cringe
no really, I’m falling for

Please No Rain

If I look above, I’m let down
in need of the a sun, change comes with a quarter moon
the stars project a milky way
the planets, like friends, keep their distance.

Andromeda and Cassiopeia wait for my revelation
Orion will ride Pegasus pleading for my belt
Ursa Minor directs me north
Ursa Major is the grizzly truth
the constellations, like saints, radiate the everlasting light
and the Pleiades will one day, come into focus.

My eyes see black and white, but choose grey
the rainbow is a covenant, light years away
your conviction is about to crest
these forty days should have been a fortnight at best
the ark, like intentions, drifts under penalty repeating
and the hope I have, will rise, with the water’s receding.

Paralysis of the Heart, Numbness of the Mind

The San Andres Fault of the soul is
breaking, breaking, breaking
the echo is a heartbeat
knocking, knocking, knocking
hope is an eyelid
blinking, blinking, blinking
tomorrow is a lottery
longing, longing, longing
history is an inverted ladder
clinging, clinging, clinging
today is an undiscovered country
exploring, exploring, exploring.

My eye is a camera
capturing, capturing, capturing
your hand is a fist
bashing, bashing, bashing
my foot is a root
planting, planting, planting
your breath is a fog
clouding, clouding, clouding
my thought is alarmed
ringing, ringing, ringing
your faith is conditional
demanding, demanding, demanding
our insides look like our outsides
fleeting, fleeting, fleeting.

The Exile has a Death Sentence

A minority to minorities
waiting for our fountain
holding our heads up
while rain is pouring down
our drowning is a drought
our delusion is ethereal doubt
Yet, like Noah, we’ll ride the ark
and the rest will be water-boarded upon the earth.

A harvest to harvesters-
waiting for table scraps
our hands are cupped
we’ll dine when we’ve supped
our feast is a fast
our famine is a flash
Yet, like the Prodigal, you’ll welcome me home
and the rest will starve upon the earth.

The existential has a death sentence-
the exile has life’s repentance.

I know the snare exists

I know the snare exists
because my eyes are open.
I know the darkness enlists
because my eyes are broken.
I know the false lie
because my eyes will confess.
I know the question “why”
because my eyes are distressed.
I know the trap awaits
because my eyes harbor harness.
I know the dire straits
because my heart is farthest.

I know that I am wounded
because my eyes are shut.
I know that I am pruned
because my eyes are cut.
I know that I am devoured
because my eyes are seasoned.
I know that I am overpowered
because my eyes have reasoned.
I know that I am lost
because my eyes have been bound.
I know that I am dross
because my heart, like silver, is found.

The Fount of Every Stressing

The desert land is my promised land
the new world is my garden of leaving
the manna from heaven is my king’s feast
the water spilling from the rock is my unsettled refreshment-
and yet I’ll complain.

The coat of many colors is my technicolor cutthroat
the burning bush is my desire’s flame out
The “know us” ark is my cruel ship
the torn commandments is my soul’s delight-
and yet I’ll complain.

The first day is my created girth
the second day is my fittest survival
the third day is my operation desperation
the last day is my resting day-
and yet I’ll curse you
(because I can’t see me).

The Blanket Upon the Babe

We knit with a needle-
with every stitch there’s a snatch
before the scab there’s a scratch
now let Us pass through the eye of the people.

The yoke begins with the yarn-
with every weakness there’s a weave
before the Light there’s a leave
belief is not a mansion, but a barn.

They pattern after a print-
with every frost there’s a freezing
before the thaw there’s a thieving
in need of heat? There’s the hint.

Pull the Thread Through

I’m on the hook
A crocheted oath
Woven by a needle
Plucked and pulled
Tied up in nots
Untangled in naughts–
Commitment is a noose
Choking me more
the completion of each row
leads the ship to the shore
while the sea and the sand
washes over the whore
and the stand that I take
is me slamming the door–
The scarf is a vow
He’s waiting to renew
at long last the loop is Him
now pull the thread through.

Taking the Lord’s Name in Vein

For once, I don’t give a damn.
As a newborn, I needed my mom.
As a teenager, I needed an identity.
As an adult? I need something to hang my hat on.
But, as a pig, I desired the filth.
As a monkey, I desired to swing in the vines.
As a cow, I desired the herd…and to be heard.
However, as a road, I wanted people to drive all over me.
As a shoe, I wanted people to share their sole with me.
As a carpet, I wanted people to walk all over me.
For once, I don’t give a damn.
As a pen, I must be mightier than the sword.
As paper, I must be a messenger in my reincarnated life.
As a book, I must be bound to a singular oath.
But, as a heart, I cannot love without striking a cymbal.
As a mind, I cannot help but think I’m missing the point.
As a soul, I cannot bind myself to my mate.
However, as a man, I long to be broken.
As a woman, I long to be swept away.
As a child, I long to have faith like a…
God don’t! God did! God…will.