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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
November 20, 2012
minister by ~InkatMidnight
Featured by thorns
Suggested by UnspecifiedUnknown
Literature Text
'good morning,' the reverend bellows
'what a lovely collection of idols
we have gathered today'
they're a spectacle of a scatter plot on the pews
the bronzed hypocrisy of saved men sitting still,
saints on the neutral ground of benches
is an inconsistency i'll struggle
to reconcile with the jacob's ladders of rough-hewn grace
swooping in on souls or spirits
which have proven to be untouchable
not for sale in even the blackest of markets
speak, preacher. preach. i've always listened piously
and i'm not yet thinking of sunday dinner:
will the chicken be hot will the apple crisp burn
i mimic transcendence of the physical
i, being the gatherer, have bypassed the stone age
for lyres and flutes and lips; our white robes-
i suppose they suit me.
i imagine my forehead set in the grave constitution
of a saint who worries not about the anticlimactic
pressure of dry, even lips
contrasting my graphic fire-fantasies,
devil's work unfit for a faithful child
preacher, name your text.
i'm not a salem girl but i'm afflicted
the opposite of love's indifference
i savor every word i steal
i speak with proud, rounded lips
and there are spectres in my storage tunnels
who still care, who still wail
will we stumble before we're blessed with means to soar
who, pray tell, is the evil one?
how do i know, how do i know
i'll start over and start over and start over
and say, thank you god, i've emerged wiser
but presently, watch me fall from grace
watch me file out, i'll shuffle away
from a dire warning of a benediction,
an empty jar of clay
burning for reconciliation:
you are your body
you are your soul
i cannot live for a god defined as paradox.
'what a lovely collection of idols
we have gathered today'
they're a spectacle of a scatter plot on the pews
the bronzed hypocrisy of saved men sitting still,
saints on the neutral ground of benches
is an inconsistency i'll struggle
to reconcile with the jacob's ladders of rough-hewn grace
swooping in on souls or spirits
which have proven to be untouchable
not for sale in even the blackest of markets
speak, preacher. preach. i've always listened piously
and i'm not yet thinking of sunday dinner:
will the chicken be hot will the apple crisp burn
i mimic transcendence of the physical
i, being the gatherer, have bypassed the stone age
for lyres and flutes and lips; our white robes-
i suppose they suit me.
i imagine my forehead set in the grave constitution
of a saint who worries not about the anticlimactic
pressure of dry, even lips
contrasting my graphic fire-fantasies,
devil's work unfit for a faithful child
preacher, name your text.
i'm not a salem girl but i'm afflicted
the opposite of love's indifference
i savor every word i steal
i speak with proud, rounded lips
and there are spectres in my storage tunnels
who still care, who still wail
will we stumble before we're blessed with means to soar
who, pray tell, is the evil one?
how do i know, how do i know
i'll start over and start over and start over
and say, thank you god, i've emerged wiser
but presently, watch me fall from grace
watch me file out, i'll shuffle away
from a dire warning of a benediction,
an empty jar of clay
burning for reconciliation:
you are your body
you are your soul
i cannot live for a god defined as paradox.
Literature
Fifty
Please understand: I do not want
to want this (you).
I realized at poem nineteen-of-fifty:
You (college-borne) are a new you,
I (weaponized) am a new me,
and the new me still wants the new you.
Literature
Someday
Jane and Ellis floated parallel to one another across the vast canvas of space, eyeing the marble-like planets that slowly crept past them. Their skin reflected the starlight with a dull orange sheen. Ellis had called it 'planet gazing,' an activity he apparently thought suitable for a date.
"Do you see that one below us?" Ellis said, pointing to a round blue mass.
Jane shrugged.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked. "I'll bet it's beautiful on the surface, too. Like the way the dust begins to spiral when a star is forming."
"Something like that," Jane said. She didn't understand his excitement. Planets were nothing interesting. They were just
Literature
The Price of Dying
“I want to be interred after I die,” Mr. Peters said. He made that clear to his family while he was still lucid, before old age and illness rendered him unintelligible. Seventy wasn’t that old, but he recognized the symptoms that were creeping up on his ailing body – the aches, the fatigue, the feeling of helplessness and despair. Despite his daughter’s attempts to assuage his concerns, he sensed his own mortality.
The worst part about dying, Mr. Peters thought, was what happened afterwards. Even since he was a small boy, he had been afraid of fire. He could never forget the scorching heat of the orange fla
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Featured in Groups
deep thinking
age-old beliefs
paradox as truth?
age-old beliefs
paradox as truth?
© 2012 - 2024 InkatMidnight
Comments74
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This is great. Makes me think of the time when I still tried to be Christian...