fear is the gift

 

 

 

 

icebound

nothing left but to

break the baby’s hands

october and then

november
 

blind paths to christ and back roads

littered with corpses and
then this man i know who divorces
one waitress to marry another

who ends up in

a two-room apartment
addicted to self-pity

has three children who no

longer speak to him and the
barrel of a gun in his mouth and
we all hold our breaths
waiting for a happy ending

we all laugh at the prophets

with their tongues cut out

how could they have

not seen this coming?

mary's house

yellow light into grey,

       end of november,
             almost warm,
          almost hopeful,
and when you’re tired of being an artist or
      when you’re tired of bleeding for minimum wage,
      when you’re tired of sorrow,
                           tired of breathing,
there’s always suicide and
it’s not like i’m telling you something new here

it’s not like i’m saying

anything at all

scripture

no way to

measure the cost of
god but in human lives

no way to justify the

self-righteous ass-lickers
in their high holy chairs

no way out for

any of us but through
endless rooms of  
                       blood