Many men wait until Death
is staring down at them
in their beds before
they make the effort
to change their ways.
Then they insist that this
makes their lives meaningful,
as if Death should take pity.
     For me, Death was a woman
and my bed a grave of guilt.

I get nervous when she comes my way,
her cigarette smoking in the glass ashtray.
My reflection in her emerald eyes,
I wonder what the look stretched across her face implies.
She's the kind to make me lie awake
contemplating what's to gain from this
and what is at stake.

She's known love at least once before,
and the feeling is one which she can't ignore.
It's a sentiment we both must share
judging by the way my fingers move through her hair.
But my heart is ******* in knots.
A good love is just that -- good,
until it's not.

By now I know you're hungry
for your god,
and not the painted porcelain face
hanging on the cross
above your doorframe.

You want more now that you're
struggling,
a voice that you have conjured
in the mind you know
he gave you,

an image blended from
your idols,
arms you once learned love in,
eyes you never from which
could part.

But that's the best you'll get,
and a shame
no one told you sooner.
An idea of faith or
more like
a dream of salvation.

Starved.

Dear lady with your diamonds,
dear woman with your pearls,
dear girl with your mother's pills,
dear baby with your curls,
is there one out here among us
who is worthy of your world?
Is there one out here among us
for whom your heart's reserved?

With your voice like bells
and your eyes like Mars,
in your purple coat
and your gown of stars,
would you ever lower
the window of your car
and point me to
your door?

In a breeze you fluttered,
like a feather in a storm,
into my weary mind
in such flawless form
and you raised your banner
around which I conform.
But you didn't even know me,
did you?

You can call it being a Christian,
I'll call it fiction,
tradition
in need of revision.
You get your scripture on your television
and at night on your knees
in the fetal position,
praying to a god who you tell me is jealous.
The whole premise,
the practice,
the promise is selfish.
And a wafer and wine
is the flesh and the blood?
What?
The grail to me sounds like
a diamond **** cup.
On your knees for the prodigal son,
altar boy walks by and now your
tunic's undone?
Let my verse be
the nail in your wrist
and truths I speak
the coin in your dish.

Somewhere, a brother's
not a brother for real,
who'd rather his little brother's
innocence steal.