Dig
Chink of the shovel in
your wrist
as it hits rock
Resounding aftershocks
Of the windstorm that
blew off
all our fig leaves
Rotting fruit left in the dirt
The whittlin' knife on
the bark
The cutter's searching
Who the hell am I?
Yet assuming the
answer already
The tunnels beneath
molehills
The world of
earthworms
Brutus Jones lost in
formless fearings (himself)
Why the hell did I
cuss over spilled coffee?
Why the hell does the
earth sprout mountains in Colorado
And swallow Israelites
in the wilderness?
The heart of
Kurtz's intended and denial
The heart of
Rick Warren leading us in a rousing
chorus
of "I'll never screw up again
God!"
Such large lies.
Dig, damn it
Don't get lost in
those stupid
lines some boy trying to be clever
Get underground and
throw away your
girl pants
The mountains are ribs
like an ark
Follow the veins of
quartz
until you find that place
where you are golden
That place where you realize that
Gold tastes as good as granite
And does about as much good
As the stones they threw
at Stephen
Slit the sentry's
throat
Cut the breakers
Dim the lights
Kierkegaard's burning
theater
No, cut the drama
Who the hell are you?
(not all that glitters)
Climb down the to its
end
(Why? You must ask Why? of yourself)
Suspended in the midst
of every imperfect
motive
Every heavenly smile
you faked while
biting your lip the blood, the taste
you were too afraid to take
Killing those I hate
over and over and over and over
(In my mind)
And having sex with sisters
(Or at least their photos online)
On Saturday I found
myself huddled in the
corner of one of the underground
magazines at
Fort Pickens
(This was after I murdered the
sentry
And realized after taking his place
That I was guarding an empty temple)
Somewhere beneath the vaulted
ceilings of my left rib cage
My eyes were weary and
the remains of
Emily's
bird lie scattered
(I
had gotten hungry)
But at any rate, Ivan
was howling outside
pushing pine needles through trees
like toothpicks in sandwiches
And I realized I'd
been down here
for quite some time and well,
it's terribly lonely to be alone in
your heart
and the best defenses I could offer
were an obsolete fort in a world of
smart bombs
that's right world, take your best
shot,
I am crouched beneath
the wall
wind howling and bullets whizzing
Ryan said standing is like jumping
on knives
The charges deep at
the base of the dam
And if I press this button
The trees from St.
Helens
The cow on a roof
And tightly sealed
shaken up
Emotions will foam through town
And I'm not really sure how my
friends
would take it if they
saw who I really
was, if I was the things
inside and
not a .
Somewhere north of my
spleen,
I began to realize
That that Amy Grant
song about turning the Titanic around
was about 80 years too late
was about 80 years too late
That if Dickinson's
bird was hatched in here
it sure as hell didn't come from me
Basically I can't
control myself
The "very things
I want to do"
I write preachy poems about.
I write preachy poems about.
And God if you don't
kick my sorry
ass over that wall
I will never live
and never care again
And if I don't stand
up like a man
Then I really think
Myshkin and Jesus
Were idiots.
Quite frankly I'm
scared
If I slaughter the
circus animals performing
in the temple courts
Reader, as we pass on
the sidewalk
This time I don't divert my eyes
Might be able to see
that right now I'm lost,
broken and insecure
Lifting my foot out of the boat
because
I'm sick and tired
of covering for God when
I think He should
come through
Cuz God I don't understand what the
hell You're doing
and it hurts like hell
I still believe just not like a child
I'm coming out hands up
I've spent twenty
years drawing designs in mud
If you're willing Lord, come inside
I'll wait
I think I can see Your
fingerprints somewhere
around the bottom, where you were
the clay is changed
But I'm not drawing
any more pictures tonight
You've broken my
collarbone
Now come make things
right.
