crushing dabs
like Brits with ****
ragging on the braggarts
for being *******
mastering fascism
like I’m in a classroom  
learning to bridegroom
and lower the boom
eating shrooms
faster than a pig truffling
feathers ruffling
feet shuffling
feeling the scruff again
as I rub my chin
and I begin mashing the rascals
and stashing the raffle wins
like at Bingo hassling
the troll doll queen
bout to bring this to a ring
and sing to all ya’ll songs
of wax and things…..

My body has not once been a temple.

I remember years ago,
sitting poolside with my grandmother,
her spidery, veined hands touching my knee:

"Your body is a grand temple,
only those who are holy are worth admittance."

And her stern sincerity made me laugh.

My body is a wet, lush jungle.
My body has been trampled through and lived in.

Destroyed, burned,
yet always continues to rebirth itself from the rubble and debris.

Am I any less for this?

My body is a mystery,
a slow wafer on the tip of a school boy's tongue.
A dark, cool place to rest your weary head.
A place to let your feet press into the rich soil
and feel like maybe you can call this home.

I think one time,
a man with dark hair and light eyes thought he could
reduce me to mere trees and rain,
not knowing the jungle is not a safe place.

Unlike those with temples for bodies,
my heart lives deep in a hidden cave guarded with
sharp memories that feel like claws.

My memories have teeth,
and my heart has a brain.

I love to move like a virus
inside her body,
balancing the wish to be killed
with the need to be spread.

There is more energy encased in this clear bead
that crawls inexorably out of my eye,
than a million, billion universes
of millions of billions of bright burning suns.
I can see the chains of glowing power
split in the prismatic lense,
surging outward, and ******* inward.
Each quivering beam of dazzling radiance
cuts across my blurry field of view,
like a flitting glimpse of a naked nightmare
that lives beneath the skin of the sky.
All these things I have seen reflected
a billion, trillion times
in the shattered crystal shard
created by a single drop,
snagged in the net of interwoven eyelashes,
brought together by a spasm of joy.
As the liquid prism dangles,
an eye-sickle, drawn downward,
it explodes in a saline cascade,
and in the moment before the droplets reach my lips
I see the face of God, reflected in the surface of my tears.

A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger,
was accused, and nailed to a cross. He lingered hanging.
Laughed at the crowd. "The nails are iron," he
said, "You are cheap. In my country when we crucify
we use silver nails..." So he went jeering. They
did not understand him at first. Later they talked about
him in changed voices in the saloons, bowling alleys, and
churches. It came over them every man is crucified
only once in his life and the law of humanity dictates
silver nails be used for the job. A statue was erected
to him in a public square. Not having gathered his
name when he was among them, they wrote him as John
Silvernail on the statue.