I sit with my sin held out
Filth mucks up my hands
And still He sits, not leaving

"Lord, surely I must do some-"
Laughs, touches my hand
"Simply be in what I've done"

"The Lord has Coffee with Me"
Omaha, N-E
April the twelfth, 'Twenty-Five

I look upon Him
He looks back
Peace and joy mingle

He abides in you
[Vine and branch]
You abide in Him

Mug heat radiates
I boil in my regret
The phone is right there

At Switchback Coffee
Colorado Springs, C-O
April the nineteenth

See me hitch, retching, and spit
An awful glob of blackened, steaming bile
A bug writhes, dying slow in the poison
Like a man whose back is pierced with a blade
I fear this is no disease in my guts
Rather waste from my pustulating self

I am clawing at my self
Cracking open a stomach full of spit
My fingers stained with the soot from my guts
And corroded through in the pitch black bile
Using my teeth like a serrated blade
My tongue stings, awash in the dark poison

It maddens me, this poison
How it managed to fester in my self
Slowly it formed like a thousand fold blade
It mingled and covered my teeth like spit
Ate away at something, this awful bile
And made its home, coating my writhing guts

As I sit scrying my guts
I must not hide the proof in this poison
I manufactured this brackish, black bile
Allowed it to well up within my self
To weaponize, to defensively spit
A subtler offense than any crude blade

In the ground I ****** the blade
Preparing to spill the rest of my guts
And I see others, smiles leaking spit
Slurries and suspensions of the poison
The byproduct of our worship of self
This self-absolving, all-filling black bile

I cannot remove the bile
Someone else and better must wield the blade
I must submit all control over self
Submit to the pain of purging my guts
The sound of my head landing in poison
My hair with the bugs in puddles of spit

As it stands, the bile still leaks from my guts
I've met the blade yet not kicked the poison
And my self, I keep a mouth full of spit