Lord
In the name of your son
I pray more than I can bear
I pray not wealth, nor health
But my prayer, so humble so solemn
My heart cries for this
And at the gates of mine own heart
my prayer pulverizes my needs

It is a blessing, a tremendous privilege
If only I would sleep hungry
and my name dragged--
along the streets of the monsters
and if termites nibbled by flesh like beasts
and the remains lit up for the streets of Rome

My heart beckons.
I cry so deeply in my heart
I bleed from the inside-out
and every meat and bone trembles
I need would trade Silver and Gold
I would trade the finest of robes, purple and pristine
and seek this want
burning want

For the world is a pagan temple
and the remnants of joy are defiled
and the beauty of mankind is robbed
Until it is a mass of rotten flesh
and the glory of men is a corpse

Lord,
I want more than currency can offer
I know not of what I want, none does
I want glory shore-to-shore
I want honor shore-to-shore
I want refuge shore-to-shore
I want to fight dragons
I want to walk on giants
I want to slaughter princes of darkness
I want to pound none's chest as I watch them cry
but to look and you, the battler
the victor

Lord,
I open my eyes before the mirror
and I see what you are
beauty
Then I close them
and see more beauty
I see them sinking in their horizons
Heights never scaled
Depths never sounded
Broader than broad
Deeper than Deep
Limits where words fail--
and understanding fractures

Lord,
I want righteousness
I want to stand by Him in the morning
and sleep in his arms in the night
I want to talk like He does
to walk like He walks
to have deeds so rich with Him

I want, I want, I want
a tinker clothed in purity
a beggar having assurance
clothed in the morning
His son! His Son!
getting my warm from scriptura
Until I see Him in His Glory

You failure of a poet!
Tarrying in limp indicatives,
Divorcing imperatives like a faithless groom.
You chisel verses like:
“From yonder, drank the stars.”
You wed rhyme behind every feeble poem,
Instead of stitching soul to your hollowed hymns.

A spider hangs above my ceiling
Ink-black, eight eyes on their torso
I crave a rest on its web
a newspaper, coffee steaming against my palm
But it seems inhospitable
It fancies bugs and flies, not 22-year-olds
and I bet it aches to lecture, with all might
"Get off your bed, you failure of a poet!"
But it can't, spiders lack vocabulary
Or maybe they do

I eat stones for breakfast,
chew them on the road.
But one thing—
I don’t release Barabbas.

On a butcher's list
until I'm broken, broken, broken into 1000 pieces
knees bleeding
lips stop quivering
until the started work finishes!