September Poem 13

Would that I could be Hindu.

Run dream on deep clay.

The white line up from the rock strewn

Friction chips that signaled himself relax.

Float counter to the pleasures of the day.

Smear in as much fish smut to let it

Break his six pound soul.

 

By myself I cannot this task,

This notion to be.

It is sin.

 

Mine enemies, the flesh, and their influences.

Christians thunder because pride is a churches name.

 

I am Christian child of American God,

White beard and white coat,

Corrupting mist hand,

Shimmering stringer of the shadows.

Morality he tamed as he shouted and pulled closed

His other hand around the back lake.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s