Confession From Heaven

Confession from Heaven

as you can see
we have potential

although hearts burst out in tears,
locked behind bars, in chains,
against a will of their own,

we carry every blink used
to wipe away the pain,
we stand guard when the Earth
shakes underneath feet full of breath

breathe easy
we have potential
we have not lost the sunlight
of yesterday,
or the smell of a growing world

childhood kisses are fresh on our
souls

we have not passed
we are not the past

we are your honest future
waiting
for our bound hearts
to hold each other
once again.

This Sickness

Sickness comes at interludes, when
light burns brighter than
sun stars, when Anger dashes in
to catch the aftermath.

We battle for the scenery.
Touching base, both reaching for
the flag, for proclamation.

It is mine. This sickness is mine
to water or see to wilt.
I find no fault in either,
both are stars of polar regions,

imploding a billion light years away
from me. I will awake with sweaty palms,
the enemy dripping down my back.

I sit in the night, like a sauna,
saluting the grace of the Gods
for keeping what is meant for the skies
quietly away from these hands.

My medicine will come clockwise, sneaking up
on me, on little twinkling toes.
I never miss this time because there is no
better place to live or to die.

Diamonds

She is fierce perfection,
parallel to the sky,
matching rock for rock.
The sky’s diamonds sparkle for her
and we stomp on her beauty,
each day, yet she is soft leather
under our ignorance.

They talk about her like I do not know
already. She is  arid,
angry!
She stretches over death,
impregnating fire
with fire. She is malignant perfection

and I am her sister.

The Desert Is Infected

The cold Earth is opening.
The desert is infected.

Starving cacti throb with hunger;
the land sweats poverty through
cracks in the street.

Ants are in a glass jar.
I gather them,
preach to them;
let them pray in the hot sun.
Then, I kneel as one of
God’s knights
and slaughter each with a slow dime.

Money is priceless.
So is time.
The desert is infected.

When Teeth Grind

When teeth grind
sleepily, a soul is angry.
Blemished.
A rotten part of a potato.

When a soul is
angry, death is Over.

Do not fear.
Do not panic.
Do not grieve.

Death is Over.

When death is Over, shoes
do not matter, but
He is felt sorry for.

So, He goes. Into the Earth
like a potato
to rot.