Monday, May 26, 2014

The Minister, the Jugular, and Faith

He has been slamming voice into a microphone
for twenty-seven minutes,
and the children have begun to wriggle
out of earshot, transported by their parents

into vestibules and out onto the street,
where streams of traffic cauterize
the silence chafed by astrological routine.
The very subject of his preaching,

a potential loss of power,
the many flowers along the median,
against the sidewalks, and in tandem
with other parallels.

One learns to genuflect, only to continue
rituals like this, slanted toward
subservience, that power
that feeds oncoming and increasing power.

She Takes to Her Bed

He remains a modest man with wit.
He window shops relationships.
Not one inch of glass has seemed
transparent. Only the darkened image

of a self left following
her relentless twitching
away from bedtime and beds
in general. He drives a hearty

vehicle into dark alleys,
where signage enumerates
the ordinances broken
by merely sitting still.

He taps messages into
the cloud, he retrieves
a tapping all his own,
and resurrects a noun, a verb.

That Was Not What I Meant

I affirmed his genius, only I forgot
he would display ineptness with the comment.

To date, he has reported it on blogs, on podcasts,
texted it, called friends relentlessly announcing.

There is nothing for me now but to enter
the monastic life, to channel deities.

Never will I feel at ease in public,
pronouncing words that should not cohabit sentences.

Faith exists to be dismantled, later taken up
selectively and solo, where a calmer life begins.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

All My Nightshirts Are the Ones You Bought for Me

I have swum laps across the desert.
Now I leave the evidence away.

At midnight, I have sugared something in the house.
I lie awake remembering what is not sweet.

The person closest to my psyche introduced hell
as my destination after saying it did not exist.

"Okay, so sell me the bridge; we'll worry about
contracts after the fact when I feel interested."

When we sleep, we sleep with selves who know our breathing.
No need to measure, for it loves and leaves itself.