Thurible

I carry you with me, and it has me in pieces
my heart swinging like the reverend’s thurible
encased in metal, it censors my emotions
as they seep out pores in my side, drifting in the air
to those who do not have ears to hear
as the Father takes me down the aisle of my peers

They have not eyes to see me smoldering
the charcoal at the pit of my desires
as I throw caution to the wind 
and offer this holy sacrifice to God in fear:
“Lord I believe, help me in my unbelief,
give me a tongue and let my heart speak.”

Oh contradiction,

you have become the parish bell I ring;

but they hear not the bell I toll, they have only mouths to sing

can they not smell the incense burning, or even feel

my pain, for it's on the straight and narrow

I swing, like a ball and chain

(2/22/09, 5/12/09)

the fall.

i left my bike in dried up flower bed

the tires digging into the soil

treading on the easter lilies that once grew.

the metal kickstand dug like a knife into the dry ground

and the handle bars leaned against the house

white stucco flakes sticking to the rubber grips.

i had fallen.

the wing of my right arm scratched and bruised

rocks from the cluttered soil beside the path

embedded into my skin

and i carried the weight of my failure

until i reached the shower to wash myself clean.

(5/12/2009)