a single orange nike hightop on the shoulder of the spillway bridge no one walking in either direction
Category: Poetry
note to self
If you won’t improve upon the blank page, write anyway.
my god is a god of flesh
sterile, lifeless “sitting next to Jesus at the table” this cannot be a connection called beloved no, it was truer before “leaning on Jesus’ bosom” the disciple was “lying on Jesus’ breast” no unchanging, unaffected ideal no staid spirit disdaining skin, sinew no measured distance or divide my god is a god of flesh a…
the geese have flown
the geese have flown atop the church sign sits a buzzard
sweet old preacher
sweet old preacher bungles the name of my uncle who he never knew ritual for the living he names them wrongly too
ash wednesday
I come, covered in ash from fires long past touching my brow the priest wipes clean a cross a touch of resurrection
Green fields grow dead, white trees
Green fields grow dead, white trees, gleaming in the sun, pretending at life. Fed on blood and manure, the trees stand still. Whitewashed tombs. The beast devours children, shits them out, and we feed it more, and more, and more. It keeps our fields green, our memories cleaned. Other fields, other blood, other excrement that…