Lot’s Wife

In the beginning, indigenas called it mystic,
an instinct the instant they saw ships in the distance.
A glimpse in the storm’s pigment
when Indians crossed pilgrims…
Predicted the gift horse lip sync
would turn course’n switch swords mid-swing
before swindling Christians swiveled long pistols,
insisting they bought Plymouth with trinkets and malt liquor.
Pawned resource for sickness,
syphilis brought and forced women.
Idiot wind minions twisting lost wisdom to false scripture,
a million moths caught in the maw of a king fisher.
Drawn to village torches’ flicker;
how quickly the fickle applaud n’ witness
ritualistic displays of public discipline,
oblivious to all difference in crucifixion n’ lawn picnics.
Gory cinema for a pittance;
glory, grizzly sinister law’s attrition.
The city of lost children is a chrysalis born stilted
with umbilical thorns twisting round the trinity’s lost sibling,
inequipped to fill his bosses’ slippers
in a pinch, now wished he missed the audition.
Gone limp too late to rescind and abort mission.
Ligaments ripped and torn sinew,
glistening whips, cords, and thistle;
the friction of raw tissue
till it splits n’ pours crimson –
a dead carpenter’s cloth skin stripped;
the cross
killed him…
…King Fisher, KING FISHER!
your scream stones lifted,
but didn’t skip the walls of this building…

Listen! They still in the floor chillin’;
frost beneath boards,
spirit forced to watch the fall of the living…
Live water tortured; rise above these halls of mirror!
Through tar pits, up darkened cliffs
to hidden tip of old ark’s conquered mission;
the miracle secret of a single fish
with which to feed a million.
Wishes like whispers to kindred sisters,
kindled seeds swim up stream in winter –
offspring minnow. Water lilies filter mist in the distance.
The river’s source is a prison,
a pillar of salt
where mythic doves wash sin off the wingless.
They bathe in basins of brimming blood
with silver tears, but still continue singing.
Innocents pinned to cage’s limit
swing from bars where guardian archer
ring finger tickle whistling quivers.
Bow and arrow, stoned rows of sparrow,
clay pigeons, bones, and marrow.
Jar of creation, focused trigger,
jealous god’s broken mirror,
and the shards of an Apocalypse.
Every earthly heart bleeds on its sleeve;
child of roses, our dark hour speeds!
Vacant lot – a tower on its knees.
Plot to plow – forgotten flowers scream.
Life for your crop! Come reap this scarlet yield
of bodies rotting in the breeze.
A throne crimson, sewing steel through harvest of skin,
arched at the seams. Jawbone in sand,
painted hands, and a clap of thunder charging from the east.
A dry stone; our childe Roland marches to the feast.
No sound of water or cricket dancing in mud –
son of man! Come under these leaves branching through the rust,
and I will show you your shadow
extending each mourning’s rose
through your back like a lantern of blood,
then razing to meat you
each evening with a hammer at dusk.
Beneath wasteland gallows, your shadow handles its gun.
Son of man, open wide your careless palm,
and I will show you a cancer
branching to cancel the sun.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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