To those who can preach only
what is printed in their pamphlets
I would whisper that what they are
outshouts their boring bullhorned dogma
Who sings me songs of Edens green –
or was that a frog croaking?
To swing the machete, I followed the arc
of the orangutan, although fat flies
and the stinging of who-knows-what
distracted vision
while nettles and thorns
hampered movement
but there was no lost garden –
just this unkind jungle
thick – dense
…and my shoulder
swelled like a
boulevard lamplight
….and my spine stiffened
to a crescent – shepherd’s crook
Could there ever be a clearing –
uninfested water?
Would there ever be dates –
or fruit of some nature –
not paid in blood and sacrifice?
I doubt it – and as I swim in penumbra
waiting for light now on the horizon
to sweep out the dusty night
I find that doubt is my most human attribute.
And even before the toe touches the slipper
I know I would parse my body like a sentence
just to pass the doubt around in holy communion
.
.
