So dirty, you want to spit out your gum

when all the human love isn’t enough
and you wonder if you’ve experienced love
when the ball point runs dry and
the creative juices no long serve up mixed drinks
intoxicating the whole page until
the end looks close and thoughts of self-mutilation and guilt
arrive on a red light subway and consumes like African fire ants.

Mobstones (debt would make it easier)

Thanks to Paul, my Christian name is a Christian name,
grateful for his “before story:”
Everyone sits in a circle,
“Hi, my name is Saul–er– Paul, and I persecuted Christians.”
Everyone claps.
Were there Stephens before this one, do we,
children of a Greco-Roman-Judeo-Christian Western World,
care?

Or what of Corinth–Love–or the Roman Road?
Sometimes I wish to just kill someone,
to get a debt to span centuries,
criminals make the best evangelists, you know?

At least the guilt would make it easier to take:
a micrometers-from-death jihad thrashing,
a fire roasting in a New Guinea swine pit, or
a free burial (like Stephen)
under mobstones

Happiness. . .I think not

When you wish,
make a list,
and finally open it
(happiness). . .I think not.
I love you, yes, but cannot lie:
I waste time lying in your arms.
Does guilt consume when I kiss you?
I feel alive only when second-guessing?

The grain and the fish

Here I am, again, thrashing on Your threshing floor.
God, grind my garbage from the good grain.
Garner it for the gardens growing beautiful garlands
to wrap around Your feet, for I cannot wear them.

“Don’t eat me!” I scream and gulp as I wiggle out of
the surging stream that is not my life, love, nor desire.
I am a fish floundering in the tweed of the Fisherman.
Caught again, unaware what other’s need.

Online

Guilt boils over as the screen sleeps in black.
Can I spend one night away from its glow
And all the pixels of people?
What if someone, somewhere needs me
No one will call, so I chat to fill this lonely night.
They tell me worries, problems, stories of mistakes,
Maybe I’ve been there once feeling their aches
And it’s killing me not to be there typing,
Messaging a friend I love dearly.
What my come if I am not there online?
wondering if i’ll make a difference over the net

Thinking of You (III)

It’s labor thinking about all the pregnant girls.
I always wanted to be the guy they came crawling to
So I could be a road sign pointing to the Cross roads.
I never could say whore or the like,
Because they believe you sometimes,
One time,
Then they break like porcelain.

No reason, no complaint
Other than a screaming “Why, why did you do it?!”

You don’t think that you deserve me and
That you would leap from tall buildings in a single bound.
I’m sorry if I never thrill you like someone else.
When you tire of the party, tell me.

If my opposite is ingrained, you’ll never change
Like the yearbook signatures: “Never change.”
But you can change, because I cry every night
Throwing objects against the wall from my bed
When I think of you in bed.
Then, I never want to see you again
Because I’m ashamed, but I would never tell you because
They believe you sometimes
One time,
Then you might break like porcelain.

For a millisecond
I wish I could have ran when I wouldn’t have felt guilt.
No matter what I say;
No matter if I can’t say anything
I still care.