More on: Poetry

god is the warm smell of a vcr —————————–in a room that feels safe. violence sits like a dog at the door, —————————–but god is the door we closed when playing playstation, —————————–the beanbag chair we shared. the door is now open, —————————–and there a man stands, looking like jesus torn from his cross, —————————–staining…

Duck-faced, the serio-comical sermon / Goes the way of confidence art on / A Holy Week spree of Menippean arson. / Heat without light.

A poem for the thin places. “I looked, but I saw / no craftsman, no tools. The buzz buzzed on.”

An elegy for the Flintstones. “It’s a trog-eat-trog world out there.”

Sometimes in the sound and the light / it grows so still / it’s possible to forget / you are moving through the air.

Night hadn’t brought forth its cache of new stars. / Nor mimosa trees folded their leaves. / She laughed, a bold and sudden laugh

When God calls you / in what voice do you respond?

The glory of the desert is to bless what diminishes

Matter is patient.

The absence of growth / a prayer I hold onto and it seems strange / to want something inside to die this much