Hearts are wild creatures, that’s why our ribs are cages.
I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.
When God created his angels he did not mean
to make divinely cruel urban monsters who
stalk back alleys and lurk in the shadows.
Michael breathes out smog and a Bowie knife
is clutched in his hand. He uses it for fun.
Raphael’s grin glints gold in the amber lighting:
angels live for war.
They all move as a unit. In Heaven
they were called a garrison.
Here, they are a gang.
On the other side of town is Lucifer,
pressing hasty kisses on Lillith’s neck in a
dirty restroom. Her lipstick is sin-red and smudged.
Hell is a dusty dive bar, the Throne
a battered bar stool and Lucifer reigns triumphant.
He rules the south side and tomorrow he will
battle Michael tooth and nail for the west.
God gave his angels form
and they did the rest.
“The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by. A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up.
There are poems
inside of you
that paper can’t
Our sweetest songs are those of saddest thought.
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