I Am Not The Same Size

To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand

would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear

would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!

I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,

and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.

I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!

I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.

My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!

Stuck In A Jar

If I count on the hours to happen
regularly, I’d be stuck in
a jar, afraid of measurement against
anything.

Instead, my cells vibrate against
all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
locked brains, eating for the
sake of eating.

I have only been substantial forever.
Nothing more. Just my face,
along with legs, and hands that
move like a floppy clock.

But my name, now that is something.
Every hour that comes,
every hour that goes,
will remember my name,
just the way my cells will remember
how small I am,
like an ant stuck in a jar,
burning from the most toxic hour.

Proper Tragedy

As sincerely,

as satisfied
as a secret lady can be.

It is nearly one miracle.

A passion!
A failed art with reflection;
manner.

A poor woman ordinarily has little shame,
but she comes with
red knuckles
and
sensible shoes.

She holds secret meetings
with passionate things.
Strawberries.
Wine.
Artists.  A learned taste.
A hushed taste for her.

I see women walk over her. In stiletto’s.
Teal designer hand bags dangling
from rich, white chocolate
perfection.
Proper uniform.

What a proper tragedy!

 

 

The Desert

Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
thirsty Earth.

The arid land has an asphalt tongue. I sit on it.
I melt to it.
A plastic shadow. Dried up. Destroyed

by the sun. Liquidated
by a watching light.

Red bugs have armor. Guardian’s of flight. Protection
from the land.
Turtles carry
shields,
and teeth. I evaporate.

An old actor rocks on a blue porch. He doesn’t
know the desert like I do. Never has sunk in its smoldering
August sand or been whipped by flaming winds.
He rocks.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
He rocks.
Whiskey in hand.
He rocks.

I evaporate. Into the weeds.
To sleep.