and frightened—
an evil child
facing the coming blues,
the weight of glory, of expectation.
This never-ending war.
Every blade I sharpen
is sure of its intentions.
This war and that—
every one God has commanded.
I’m speaking a true word—
when it’s true that any bone
can explain why Samson carried
it into another’s hinterland.
Them bones, hambones,
my-Lord-what-a-morning trombones—
oh please, come with me
to smite the weak.
I know that I know what God
knows, because He lives
in my scripture-singing self,
and since I command the babble
stirring the bricks of their tower,
I am made a godly God
and can piss oceans to replace
dead men’s salt—
but if I were human, I would know this:
the soul has a body of its own
and will walk left or right.
The soul’s flesh will turn,
its sweetness no longer nectar
but unbearable kindred.
This war today:
dry bones.
APOLOGIA FOR SOMETHING
Fall in love with someone’s poetry and thus, fall in love
with that someone. How many times can I explain this?
I’m running out of water. I’m not a child anymore.
I’m talking to you.
I’m talking to myself, repeating a harpy’s creation,
the chatter of disappointed women.
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