Your Apocalypse

Your apocalypse came and went,
showered down the innocent.
Your pristine haven
with your god still saving
souls and damning saints.
I hear a whisper; it's faint
and it keeps my head spinning
while God is grinning
a magnificent, mischievous grin
because there's no consequence for His sin.
He sunbathes on a cloud
and can't hear us crying so loud
while Jesus writes dirty poetry
and hides it where no one can see.
A happy literate is he
and his words are for free.
But you'll manage to mangle them,
destroy, wreck, and tangle them
so you'll never listen
to his proud and peaceful sermon.
It's your own fault for throwing it away.
It's your own fault for what you won't say.
And you'll grieve when you hear
the horseman's horse galloping near,
but you'll know in your heart
that you brought about the start.
The fire's heat sticks
and the devil's pitchfork pricks
against your back
for the conviction you lack.
Don't claim your piety now
for Love to whom you never did vow.

*****************************************

At my local Starbucks, there was a book entitled "Jesus With Dirty Feet" sitting on a little book shelf. I misread the title for a brief moment as "Jesus Writes Dirty Poetry." Don't ask me how. The spine of the book was wrecked, so the only words I could really make out were "Jesus" and "Dirty." I was a little disappointed when I saw I was wrong. So, it became the basis for this poem. I liked the idea. Jesus was a hippie-ish figure, afterall. I could see him writing dirty poetry and hiding it from Pop. God in this poem is the Old Testament 'fire and brimstone' sort of God and Jesus is supposed to represent a softer figure who is then - naturally - misunderstood; his words turned upside down and interpreted into garbage he never intended. Maybe this is my brief history of the Christian faith. Maybe.





"There's hell upon a breeze; there's hell upon a breeze. Six riders ride..." AA Bondy How Will You Meet Your End?

Shoe Laces

Heart bleeds,
skips a beat,
whispers lies
and takes bribes.

You're much too far away
and I can't think quiet enough to pray.
I miss the words you wrote
and the song from your throat.

But it's your hand on my back,
that warmth I now lack,
the keeps me awake at night,
that keeps you within sight.

I'm not in the business of interpretation
and to try would be a great sin
and just because I miss your eyes,
doesn't mean I'm paralyzed.

So, tell me something meaningful:
words that wake the idle
and bring me back to you
where my vision's always glued

to soft faces
and shoe laces
and smiles that bite through
even the thickest fog and dew.

****************************************

It's about the little things we notice about people that make us miss them the most.





"So let my hands stray past that boundaries of your back to get you breathing and get this started..." Brand New Logan To Government Center

Myth Born

Tell me the truth
or a convincing lie:
words so mangled
and mismanaged,
their meanings are
muffled and mutated.
There was a story
whispered or maybe
wimpered, but not told:
remembered,
restored,
resurrected,
rewound, and
ruined.
Written and
written off:
a lie spewed
a myth born,
a happy ending
to save face,
to let you leave
with a smile in place.
But it's fake
and fraudulent
and it sickens
every inch.
Disappears
in a sinch.
Aches on your skin,
a pinch.
You want the truth
to sound so sweet.
Oh, disappointment,
a fatal defeat.
But you force your head high
and you smile real wide
and you cover and conceal
that which you can't feel.

**************************************

It's about the lies we believe and the truth we can't believe.




"Believe in me ' cause I don't believe in anything and I want to be someone to believe..." Counting Crows Mr. Jones