Ars Poetica

Too late—the path to righteousness gone cold
& everywhere a forked tongue, split road
                                                                dividing line—
toward, away, toward—the divine, unraveling like anise, black
licorice in the night. Psych—Nothing that dramatic. Nothing quite
so unpalatable, destitute, but I did leave the church. I kept
praise, its utterances. I kept guilt, do unto others, & not much else
except You. Please don’t worry too much about me. I left
                                                                                               a window
cracked wide, view enough to see myself back, in case of fire. I’ve left
frequencies     staticky, radios blinking MAYDAY MAYDAY
from a gashed motherland, kept them flickering my veins like angry 
lightbulb filaments, left errant, purposely. I try so hard to be good
at mercy. Though, sometimes, a wound is the salve, & besides
harder to forgive the self when I don’t always recognize my flaws
as ill intentioned or otherwise. I’d try You in Taoism, yoga. I’ve tried
expensive whiskey, tried running suicides. I’ve tried this one
                                                                                               blue stone
skipped across a transom, tried the joyous nectar residing between
several varieties of thighs. I’d try anything to sound a shot heart,
my bottomless racket. I’d do anything to live quietly
in You, Father, Maker, Mother, Muse, I try so hard I try. I really do.