34: Ghost Worship

- November 5th, 2017

A blot on silver, rising I wonder,

were plans made to aim; do you

pull a trigger, or

just hold it down?

My colors are everywhere, my shape is smeared.

We came to praise our God; perhaps

it was

that you came to praise yours. Ours of book

and cup; yours of

gun metal, strife, arrogance,

broken lines on the fortune tellers hand holding, her face,

yellow, to gray

like that color of blood dusted by all the footsteps around it

on the floor.

Who's voice did you speak with in your head this morning? How did you

play and pray as a child? Where do you go when you sleep?

Your heart is a shadow. You should go straight to the sun and

burn off

the mess, cauterize its edge.

Did you feel the nerves, signals of loose roots, indecision; were your

hands hot, handles difficult, triggers bouncy; was the clicking

fast enough; falling as quickly as you hoped -

there is a smell to warm gunfire. It is

the burning of a book, the glue and stitch, cracking pages -

all sickened control

has known this acrid fume; the wind

will not have the sin of it, lets it

rise, never smoothed; in

a static it seeps, upward;

into the parts of the world, suffering demands the pew

just before joy, blocks the pulpit with a swollen head.

Around the view,

you can hear your death come; you cannot

listen to your life leaving; forever is nothing but echo; so

from the gun, how far can a death go?

Listen for us, all of us;

won't you

take some pictures

of a prayer