Iscariot and Other Poems


In order to kill God,
first make him white.
Let him coin the coon,
spend a rib, bend a spoon,
see light as good, humor
all the holy men in hoods
reveling in the color of the smoke.

Let those men auction shadows
off into the sea.
Let those shadows sift the spirits
of their children from the silt,
audit the air for ravens and find the moon
still edged in surf. In other words,

let them drown.

Lord, top the smirking axis with a ball of ocean
and let it swallow all the dust that dared be bone
on its own, a stellar spasm in black,
airless space.

We turned cotton to calyx stars,
filled our stomachs with the stomachs of pigs,
called it feast, took the word from the same hand
holding the lash, called it something other than
a leash.

Collateral damage became high water,
divine, but most importantly
inexplicable, until we could read
between the lines where entropy meets
low-pressure system meets
the residual embarrassment
for the invention of the snake.

We held the etymology inside ourselves
like a secret, until it festered to suspicion, and finally to
a lie
to a seraphim in scales, falling from the sky

so we had no choice but to
fork our tongues, no choice

but to riot and loot,
take the silver and the fruit,
no choice

but to end Him and eat from the trees
take the alabaster box and lace our hair with oil,
kill the master while he was confident
we were still on our knees.
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