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!

Allegiance To The Line Juicer

He is wired for
sour fruit dessert, weaving black and blue
cables  through his heart.

A stripper and his peach syndrome
parted, in him, desire from fear.
He lost.

Yet,
he can swallow rose petals better
than any absorbent
and
he steps more lucent than any
cloud walker…

I have pledged allegiance to his hands,
his hair,
his stubble shadow.
I demand his tongue
his touch,
his exchange;

where his voice spreads thick,
taste enhances,
where his deluxe firewater is served,
servants dance,
where his skin sheds to brace life,
I kneel.

If God cannot dampen my dry, callous skin,
maybe this sad Electrician can.

 

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