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.


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