Prayer Poems

A prayer from a five year old me

Diosito if you can help papi,
Wipe the white dust off his nose,
And let him remember my name,
My face, even when his eyes
Are lost somewhere
Bring him back
And keep him here with us.
Melt the soft belly of his feet
To the ground
And let him stick for me,

I’ll be thankful.
I don’t need much
Just mami and papi
And less bottles,
And belts,
And bad words,
Then I can be happy.

Rhyme in my poetry is the kid in me

Having fun with the things

I’m supposed to take seriously

Since when was anything sacred anyway

I’ll let you watch me bathe

If that is the kind of naked game you wanna play

Like *** is sacred

I mean your body is no chapel

I’ll pick your shrapnel with my teeth

And yodel in the caverns of your canyon

Till your hips jive-talk my mouth a mountain

I mean you’ve got the youth-iest fountain

Woman

This is ***** talk

Why you laughin’?

No I don’t remember last time

I slipped myself the roofie

Didn’t think this’d happen unless I was loopy

Not that I’m a catch

Or that me getting you’s a stretch

Or that thing I asked you to do

Is really all that far-fetched

Just don’t ask me to take you seriously

Because like this ***** rhyme

And what we do on any given night’s a crime

And because when these clothes come off

You meet the kid in me

Who can’t take you

Or anything else all that seriously

Preacher's Son

You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice - 
Each syllable a warning 
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.

You are nothing more than 
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.

Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.

This is no longer your church, 
And I no longer your son 
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.