Yesterday I was a roaring storm,

rushing down into banks of

yellow and white wheat.

All because I wanted my potted plants.

My meat hooks and my overcoat.

To stand on your door step

And say look, I drew a picture for you.

I gathered my swords for you.

I am soft and newly born for you.

But all the days are long, you say.

So I resign myself to gentle misses,

computed hand pats from a charged out dawn.

I wait for the radio clock,

the clasp of lighting that will gather me,

and push me towards the neon sky.

Of nothing. Of nothingness.

On a cathedral neck in some great city

I weathered myself clean.

I had no way of knowing the distance.

On horseback. On stamp post.

I lit a lonely sketch of myself.

I stuck my tongue out and washed it.

So full of hope I cut my heart into other hearts.

It bled and bled and bled.

Into a buffet of half empty glasses.

Into the velvet lip of night I held myself.

It was the last logical touch,

A glittered road to some other place.

 But don’t kid yourself.

This is not the kind with God.

This is the kind with marshmallow rings.

With mosh pits and wet handshakes with a woman.

Who smells like all of the trash in Delaware.

We were born at the bottom of a lake.

We were born on a subway car in shit city.

We cried on our way up.

Life isn’t easy and right now the light is so bright.

It is so bright I said and my eyes feel like star fruit.

We hold up the babies.

They are dressed in costumes.

There is no God in this plastic blue tent.