Nard.

One weeping angel
Stops
and dances with abandon
across the stars, across history
to the feet of Jesus
And he is forgiven.

He will not be damned.

Perfume pours from his eyes and onto the feet of the Holy One.

The others do not see because they are still weeping,
their faces pressed against granite hands,
hands wet with tears that fall
and sizzle in the stars

I have a fragile spine
I am not made of granite,
and I do not dance through time and space to Jesus' feet.

The Lion and the Lamb sit together with license to condone or condemn
Their eternal loving stare crushes me
as I approach carrying nothing

Oil of Joy

Where is your oil of joy?

Come with me, I'll show you.

You can't stay here for the rest of your life.

You mustn't swim alone. 

Get out.

I have something for you.

We've shared tacky necklaces,

and here is one with a peace sign.

Let it turn your skin green;

let it bring you peace inside.

Keep the necklace.  

Here is another one.

It says "BFF."

Here is my counsel:

When you cannot unravel the chains,

Remember that you can

But don't bother.

Let me lead you to your oil of joy.

Let me tell you a secret:

I don't actually know where it is.

Can you handle that?

You can.

I remember you.

Just keep the necklace and never go away.

End of Story

The hot, dead tree enraged me.
The leaves burned off and my future lay in their ashes.
My burnt skin smelled of injustice.
An injustice had been served to me.

I crossed my arms and awaited the bitter, bitter end of my story.

The roots of bitterness grew quickly.

They met something coming up from below:

An eye,
an all-seeing eye
and it was looking that way,
and it took away the long, deep roots of bitterness
that had grown under my hot, dead, ashen tree.

I uncrossed my arms.

I walked on the sand and was not burned because the eye had told me the way to go.
I came to the water and roots of sweet things began to grow.

And that is where the bitter, bitter end of my story washed away
because I was home.

Babylon

Spiffy.

I covet everything.
I say
"I have done nothing wrong."

My feet lead to the grave;
They are fortified with the blood of the saints.

I stand silently with my feet in cold water and knives in my hands.
My eyes are closed.

Lying in wait.

I consume the saints
as they degrade themselves to the very pits of hell
for me.

I am impatient for them.
I am Babylon and I covet them all.

Mirrors

I sparkle at night, sometimes.
I am a myth;
And sometimes not even that.

I am a deer illuinated
Covered in mirrors.

Those who see me speculate with their sharp eyes.

Sometimes they do not like what they see.

What is dark must always be brought into the light.

I have collected many words on my body.
(My body, a book.)
The forest holds my stories.
It is made light by my words.
Someday these words will be illuminated by men.

Tonight my body is illuminated by a man.

I see jealousy shine through my forest of reflection,
and frustration glaring down a pair of sights,
and I am afraid.

I am not all-seeing.
I only see what is in front of me,
and sometimes not even that.

But I saw his eyes:
But the hunter looked at me and did not like what he saw.

When he looked in my mirrors,
he did not like what he saw.

A bullet from a car window,
a gift to mankind.

I am in demand -
I am the pretty things,
The pearls.

I am what it is to be known, and to be remembered.

Hell is laid bare before me and I see your heart.
Your story is on my body,
somewhere.

I did not die that night as the coils of the grave overwhelmed me.

A furious bullet is sweet,

But my image is still sold at home decorating stores,

And I am, in fact, alive.

Stars

Thank you for the stars:
the old light,
the ancient light watching us,
the wise, wild eyes cut into the sky.

Champagne bubbles discovered by a Catholic Priest:
He heard the echoes of the
Pop! -
its reverberations

The bright little freckles tell stories of signs on a big highway:
None of them point to us.
They point to the saints;
They point to the bold.

I can't believe
Bang!
I can't believe I said
Bang!
Bubbles in cold water

I look at the ancient eyes cut into the sky and my eyes are bright.
I am bold.

The priest bathed in the warm water
and got out of the tub into the cold bay breeze.
Pop!

"Thank you for the stars,"
he said.

He removed his eyes from the ceiling and affixed them to the highway of the saints -
the highway of the righteous lions.

He saw the lions' eyes.
His eyes shone and he became a lion himself.

He became bold.

I believe
Bang!
I believe it's time
Bang!
To look at the sky