Dig

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

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.

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.