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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
Lintukoto
Life as a stained glass window in the cosmos:
a well of misfortune, shattered hours,
pieces of night and liquid decades.
A bird crosses the universe
and in the corner of eternity it warbles
a song that encloses everything.
I escape to the route of tempest:
the galaxy, oniric labyrinths,
a spiral path to madness.
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
The Seizures
Skye has a seizure at dusk, and we're alone.
I hold her wrists
down
so she doesn't fall from her hospital bed,
turn her on her side and hit the nurse distress button
screaming for someone to help us.
She's shaking uncontrollably,
and the bracelets on her wrists move
in a discordant lullaby.
Then it's over,
and the nurses come and check her pulse,
her blood oxygen, her motor control.
She can talk again, but she's confused
and doesn't know who she is.
She can't move her legs.
I stroke her hair and tell her where she is,
help her slow her breathing, and help the nurses.
Our roommates return, and she starts seizin
Suggested Collections
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...