Purging the Soul

Ever up from the forest time wailing,

The she wolf lost further back in his head.

The guardian hides still beyond seeing

With pools to wash in when his sins are paid.

He clings and slides and steps while he grovels.

But prayers from below still lighten his breast.

Standing even in his latex envies,

Luis had eased the painting in his chest.

He brought it forward and up, heaving with

The strengthening of the wind on his back.

Hands and feet sticky with the wet clay earth,

He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.

Panting with effort and knowing his worth.

He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.

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.