Angels Intent on Falling

Bibles with broken spines
and tattooed with coffee stains
sprawl across cluttered tables.

At certain angles, the stains
form infinity
as the eternal words of God,
pass silent judgment
on your morning routine.

...and you're right,
you haven't sold your soul.
--but you have
cashed out some equity
with an option to buy back.

So, don't look surprised
when you can
no longer pay the interest
and find yourself in default.

(Failing God is easy,
in a language where profit
and prophet sound the same.)

Are you an Angel?

I can no longer tell;
I've been here too long.

She leans in,
kisses my neck
and whispers,

"God may be big
but He gets smaller
the further you fall."

Without Sound, God is Empty

Muted screams
echo in angry silence
as hushed waves
break on the shores
of heaven
deafening gods
with good intentions.

(and heaven is
the remains of
intricate sand castles
shaken from
the shoes
of sunburned children)

Still, sooty clouds
billow across strange coasts
raining the whispers
of anonymous lovers
onto oblivious
devils hell-bent
to be heard.

Writing with an Angel Feather Quill

Writing with an Angel Feather Quill

Tomorrow I will write you a poem,
speak of God, and polish
both our halos.

But tonight,

tonight, I will paint pictures
of past lovers
on strangers’ faces,
dine on awkward flesh,
and run into the arms
of friendly devils
courteous enough
to offer solace
from angry gods.