Jesus Calling

The night before
She stands inside
The bulging, burgeoning 
Closet.

What will I be tomorrow?
Pink and pearls?
Grey and gold?
 
Will she dress
To impress
          or
To cover?

There is always
               so
Much
To cover.

Morning rises.
Shower not bath
Never bath
To sit so
         still
       so
         long
In water
       so
         hot
With time, 
           Well,
No. Oh, no. Just
                 No.

Not when there is
The Mirror
To be faced
The Mirror
Whose price inflates
Whose toll increases 
With every passing year.

To lift the droop
Suspend the sag
To fill the sallow hollows
That darken and deepen
With every lie

To plump the lips
Worn out
Worn thin
By each apology 
               never made
By every promise 
               forgotten

To span the crevasse
The ever-widening crevasse
Between who she 
                Is
And who she
           Claims
To be.


There is no pink
Light enough
There is no ink
Dark enough
To fill the expanse
Of that limitless
                  Void.

Still she tries.
Each morning she
                 tries.

Spackling the wrinkles
With new and heavier
                    Layers 
Of hypocrisy,
Watching it settle 
Into the lines
Like fine French
                arsenic
Feeding flesh to bone.

"You still got it, Sister!"

She winks at the glass that
                           withers
Beneath her gaze.
Then gathering the blackened
                            bits
Of her soul into a green velvet bag, 
She slithers behind the latest
Luxury wheel, turning the key,
Shaking her head,
"Late again".

Knowing 
        He
Waits
Obvious and open
Atop her slick office desk
Flayed and splayed,
                  Calling
Unheeded 
Unheard
       Forsaken.








Not to be Seen in a ‘Zine

You
would not call me
Poet.

Perhaps I am not
angry
enough, or
perhaps I am too
busy
hacking through the
husk
of angry to reach the
core of pain.

Perhaps I love
words
too much, or know
too many or long
always
to know more.

Perhaps I
spell
too well, preferring
to pay homage to the
Ancestors
who left us
Silent Ps and Bs and Hs,
Diphthongs,
Gerunds,
Counterintuitive Pronunciations
and
three words to two, too.

Perhaps I cannot
match you
fuck for fuck, or
believe too much in
subtlety.

(there’s that pesky silent b)

Perhaps my
Mind has not yet
made trite the
Beauty
of a rose, nor my
Ego
turned insipid the
Joy
of a child.

Perhaps the smell of
Death
has not yet
overcome the smell of
Puppy Breath.

Perhaps I
sometimes
rhyme.

For whatever reason
or for none,

You
would not call me
Poet.

And that suits me
just fine.

 

©sdrogers 14 january 2013