His body was taint
craved desire yet lethal
mercy lost, tasteless.

****** lustful
he kissed my tender moist lips
and caressed my waist.

I was a ******
though I thought of *** often
and prayed for my prince.

The boy touched the girl
smooth and inappropriate
her tummy tickling.

I arrived home late
cannabis calming my thoughts
liquor my lover.

I smoked cigarettes
and thought about his soft touch
him an addiction.

He would say my name
murmur low “Evangeline”
and control my youth.

Wanna-be poet
eighteen and always failing
haikus a joy.

I write in my mind
the 5-7-5 a puzzle
sleepless nights my friend.

All artists are poor
embracing weirdness, difference
rebellious baby cubs.

I am a panda
elephant or an ant queen
maybe a mermaid.

Not so little now
but exploring earth and sea
born in the 90s.

The Holy Spirit,
it resides in my body,
my body its own.

God said, “Let us make”
stating he was not alone,
that God is of three.

He is the Father,
The Creator of mankind
and all creeping things.

Jesus is the Son,
born to humanly connect
and die for our sins.

The Holy Spirit,
it is our heavenly soul
and image of God.

And Lucifer fell
God saying to go away
his beauty erased.

Daddy told me “pray,
and beauty will not leave you
and love will remain”.

Mommy is gone, dead
her voice and whispers a corpse
her skull remaining.

A pencil took love
American love too good
and of much horror.

Not ****** and cruel
but psychological pain
of regret and doubt.

My love was fire
illicit and illegal,
robbery of trust.

As if in prison
I was a caged animal
howling to escape.

His tongue, it danced slow
waltzing a tango flapper
in the loud 2os.

He approves of tears,
mine an arousal of sight
and he enters me.

He is my neighbor
about thirty or forty
who likes to smoke ****.

He would lure me in,
asked if I liked poetry,
a warm, young poet.

He read me sonnets
while I decoded couplets
his breath on my face.

Like strong peppermint
or cinnamon or maple
I was like a treat.

Milk chocolate delight,
a chai tea latte invite,
vanilla frosting.

I could have said no,
pushed him away and ran home,
but I liked his house.

Wanna-be poet
wasting time on a high man
Europe to explore.

He was not Britain
Nor was he Italy or
Switzerland or France.

He could not be Greece
nor Ireland or Norway
or Sweden or Spain.

He was Nevada
or Wyoming or Kansas
even Nebraska.

California sun
Washington and Oregon rain,
west coast was he not.

He himself was taint
saying “my love, my dear love,
my Evangeline.”

“My Evangeline,
my poet, my lover…young,
oh Evangeline”.

I think of Jesus,
the Holy Spirit and God,
fallen Lucifer.

An angel so bright
He could not let go of pride
And I’m falling, too.

Asleep I fall to
a song behind his split tongue
agony inflamed.

So I write of this,
an affair of poetry
spectacular, no.

She wishes for death
haikus of religion
and of sweet taint love.

Oh Evangeline,
The Holy Spirit weeps, too
your tears its own tears.