My savior, offering baskets of bread
And red herring.
Sophistries for picnic blankets to dine on.
St. Jude hands me a towel, whispers in my ear;
“A tired soul can lie, as easily sneak
Angels back into heaven.
But, it’s not only the devil who can smile
When committing a dirty little sin. “
My choices are halos and horns for hand holds,
To hang onto that which may not be mine.

Thank you Mr. Lemon

I look to get what I need,
From the one who taught me,
I need it.
I wander through his forest
To learn how to spot a few trees
Of my own.

Inspiration,
And the switch is ticked on.
The short circuitous route zips alive
With its microcosmic electrical snap and buzz.
Hesitancy retards the flood of flash and flicker.

Tear gas and spent brass
Eggshell-delicate crowns scattered and crushed
Or the whore, who’s razored breast weeps
For the 100 “Gouds” she couldn’t proffer to save her self;
Are not such things people pleasure in their poetry.

My lovelies of Maple and Ash
Turn out to be the beasts in my belly.
If I am willing and able to manage so
Will remain in their eternal gestation
Period.