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.

Chaotic Bliss

When we break,
our pieces mingle.

We lay on
the floor
amongst each other
and become
parts in each other's
puzzle.

Reassembly results
in a picture
--and like most
pictures,
we become subject
to other people’s
scrutiny.

(Best we stay broken,
our pieces
jumbled together
in chaotic bliss.)

Shatter Dance

Her path always leads to
broken glass.

She has had a private war with mirrors
ever since she learned
to hate herself.

She breaks every one
that bears her image.

The sound of the shatter
makes her shudder
and she dances in ecstasy
among the spreading shards
desperately trying to forget
she is the one
that is broken.

Rogue Poets

This image is entitled Mouthing Off.

Rogue Poets

Polite conversation
is nothing more

than parasitic words
infesting lip and tongue
until they can do
nothing more but lap against
polished teeth

(and dream of spitting
the bloody rhetoric
of rogue poets
that have forgotten
their mortality.)

Almighty Alzheimer's

This picture is entitled Absent Minded Savior

Almighty Alzheimer's

The last time
I walked on water,
I got lost
and wandered about
the Atlantic for a year
until I finally found
the shipping lanes
and followed
an oil tanker
to Louisiana.

It happened to be Mardi Gras
and the priests
kept tricking me
into changing
the water into wine.

After a while,
I got tired and
crucified myself.

Everbreak

Everbreak

I am the point of fracture
on a fissure spreading through glass.

Not about to break; not broken
--eternally breaking.

Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

“The drugs don't work no more.”
--The Vincent Black Shadow

He stuffs sins
in a cardboard box
until the lid barely fits.

Their fleshy bodies
strain against
the air holes
as he pokes his
finger around the lip of the box
cramming them further
and further down
as the little squeals
of the damned
lick his ears.

He wraps it carefully
with a pretty pink bow,
grabs a pen and writes:

To God: Thanks for all the laughs.

Society of the Soundless

Society of the Soundless

"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778), (Attributed)

"It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

The Hushes
march down Main Street
teaming up on any Screams and Yells
they may find;
They shove
newspapers and holy books
into their victim's loud mouths
until they are muffled.

Fearful, the free Screams and Yells
go silent. Too afraid of
being muffled; they lose their
voice and become Whimpers.

Aside from the occasional
Shout that is quickly
hunted down and silenced,
we have become
a society of the soundless
living in a library
of books
that we are forbidden to read.

And what of me?

I will become a whisper
dancing between the ears
of the Quiet
and when enough of us
add our whispers together,
we will roar.

Ember Ashes

Ember Ashes

"If God lived on earth, people would break his windows."
--Jewish Proverb

Embers in the autumn air
the blistering kisses of the damned
as they search for a soul to singe.

Embrace the fiery pinpricks
in the godless sky
and turn your soul to ash.

Drop from angel cluttered clouds
and fall lightly in the hands of hypocrites
that smudge their foreheads
leaving grubby fingerprints
on all they touch.

Watch as the pageant of degenerates
with soot covered genitals
bow to intersecting beams of wood
and pretend to be cannibals.

They are religious gluttons
that fail to realize
that communion is an act of sharing
not of consumption.

Echoes of the Adhan

Echoes of the Adhan

"Colors fade, temples crumble, empires fall, but wise words endure."
--Edward Lee Thorndike (1874 - 1949)

Crates of bobbleheads
wash up on the shores
just south of Jeddah.

Waves crash
as vacant stares
jiggle in the desert sun.

Soaked in Red Sea salt
they awkwardly stumble east
toward the house
that Abraham built
only to get lost
and melt
in the midday sun.

The last sound
to linger
in their little plastic ears
is a call to prayer
in the unfamiliar
language of God.

The Fragile Stain

The Fragile Stain

"A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic."
--Joseph Stalin (1879 - 1953)

She breaks bottles in the parking lot.

Slowly, she fingers the jagged edges
and leaves streaks of her soul
smudged on the shattered surface.

Shards chew through
the ridges of her fingertips
and eventually find their way
into the wet breath of God.

The fragments of glass
course through her veins,
and gather in her heart
where they form a blood tinted
stained glass window.

Alone and surrounded by adversaries
I fall with blood in my mouth
and ringing in my ears.

I clutch at the shadows
of my killers
as flesh fails
and I give birth to my soul.

As I leave my body
and become an after-image
in the eyes of my enemies;
my vision blurs and
I see her with bleeding hands
behind the smeared glass.

We hover on opposing
sides of the fragile stain
separated behind
the remnants of broken bottles.

My heaven and
my hell
are found in the bloody
fingerprints of absentee Gods
hiding in the hearts
of the homeless.

Drowning Angels

This picture is entitled, "Blind Flight".

Drowning Angels

The echoes of
unspoken words
are prayers
to drowned angels
caught in the fishing nets
of blind men.

They pull in their catch
and dine on angelic flesh
only to sprout wings,
take flight,
lose their boat,
and fall into the sea.

Ill at ease with stolen wings
they rip them from their backs
renounce their claim on divinity
and die as men
that know the comfort
of regret.

Domesticated Magicians

This picture is entitled, "Lonely Familiar".

Domesticated Magicians

Harvest
the remnants of whispers
dangling between
dead lovers.

(leathery sacs
that catch on the ridges
of queasy fingertips)

Greedily,
stuff them in your mouth;
feel them envelop
teeth and tongue
as they spread to moist throat.

Each urge to cough
is a bruised word
that slips on bloody lips
and drops
into the pockets
of fallen magicians
who have sold their secrets
in order to secure
a home in heaven.

Empty Mirror

This picture is entitled “Empty Mirror”.

Empty Mirror

You're a twisted
little lick.

A fleshy little prayer
hidden in the
fingerprints
of absentee lovers
whose ethereal hands
trek lonely skin
seeking affection
in a beggar's cup.

fold-back; quiver
and burst

The change
in the tip jar
falls among
the broken glass
slicing greedy fingers
that smell of musk
and hopelessness.

Years later,
she buys a mirror
and tries to master
the fine art
of kissing her
reflection,
only to discover
that she doesn't
exist.

Disassembly Required

This picture is entitled "Used Parts".

Disassembly Required

My heaven is not
a solitary streetlight
in the dark cosmic expanse
where dislocated souls
flop eternally against
smudged glass
begging entry
to a highly selective
source of light.

My soul courses
through flesh
and when my body fails,
it will fall into
my mother’s womb
where the blocks
that built me
will be pulled apart
and used to build
something else.

After all,
we are assembled
from used parts
merely loaned to us
for a season.

Grief Eater

This image is entitled "Grief Eater".

Grief Eaters

Pudgy little demons
suck on the corner
of her eyes
and feed on the tears
her soul refused
to let flow.

Soon,
they will gorge
themselves
and fall
back into hell.

They become
moist tidbits
for thirsty masters
that have long since
forgotten the
necessity of sorrow.

Ecstasy of Drowning

Ecstasy of Drowning

When we kiss,
our tongues melt
and drip
from the corners
of our mouths.

We are wet breath
on moist flesh
and rain on each
other until we become
a storm.

The world floods
and we float naked
before the universe
unaware of anything
but the ecstasy
of drowning in each
other’s arms.

God is a Mirror

God is a Mirror

When a puppet dangles by one string,
it is easy to confuse it with a noose.

When the puppeteer jerks
too hard,
we find ourselves
falling upward
toward God.

We hover briefly
before the Almighty
almost convinced
of His existence
until we notice
God is merely a mirror
and our own reflection
is staring back.

Gravity prevails
and we watch ourselves fade
as our point of origin
and destination
converge.

Viewed at a distance,
we are nothing more
than dark specks
trailing tattered strings
against blue sky
and white clouds
destined to become
bruised flesh
and crimson mist.

Tell me once again
of God... and this
time, try to conceal
the fact you're
lying.