The legion of the lived

I sensed a chorus underground
Lurched the shoes and smoke, 
would break cathedrals in half
when it sounded up from the rock.
 
In a dirty limestone city of Christ 
The underworldly plains rolled out
bruising skies, and birds the size
of men, who rattled in their clothes
 
The gems between their fingers
glittered like red stars from roofs 
and opening the thick black dirt
grew and grew a quiet coliseum the 
voices marching up 

God is in the world

I would write for myself
After the thawing, in a gold book:
That’s how I know some semblance of Yeshua
still works through my veins. Urgent love to steep-
a honeyed ache would spread like sap on the tongue.
_
I’d remind that I am a pomegranate
bursting with seeds raining to the ground
pouring to the ground
Like money
Ambrose
A waterfall 
Gently laughs 
Through the outburst of fissures
Of rock and calcite In their time of year
_
But it’s thawing year. Open for
minnows to kiss and heat the lake’s surface,
and seal a capsule of heart in rock still pulsing
for each other like a lost well of whispered hymns-
Sustained- A long ache before two small wrists almost touch.

Sanctum

Did you know your 

Inner words your 

swirling sentences 

That they can

they can

steam up

 

steam up your sockets

That they can light up 

You 

And that

You

 

can be 

The light in the room

In lieu of power and 

Rage 

Or for exploding:

Love and shout 

A toast to self 

 

Just the beautiful Your

Reality 

Of that

Which is humanly

And truly 

ocean-deep,

It draws jeers 

And tears all the same-

did you know

that

I hear my heavy pulse like “rum,” like a thunder debate.
And of course, I smoke. I smoke thickly with my feet crossed,
Linoleum floors, creaking old dogs pacing ruts in the floor
Click the beat of the clock, of my thrum confused by
Its question: how did I get to sitting on this floor,
In the half-dark, with myself and a small glass and other heads,
A dog, a hand over mine like a prayer for a quilt being
Answered and since I smell like bonfire,
And there are not nine cinders in my hair like a
Tarot, Pentacles,
The Devil
The devil isn’t in a clean white bed at the top of the stairs
room down, In this empty house we cluster,
dogs digging trenches and jewels glowing through the floor.