You are the Bible
versus the world,
the material inseminated
by the divine. You are the word.
Each syllable--coated in spit
and longing--sounds something
like the invocation, choking
on desire.
A prayer is muttered,
under the breath,
in broken English,
by inspired tongues.
You are the answer.
You are the robe that opens
and exposes smooth skin
to wounds that are waiting
on future battlefields.
You anticipate
doubts, and the devil
looks on. Your hymnal
has fallen open
to the page:
Hymn # 27.
This song, these voices, will stay,
deep into the night,
persisting in dreams,
providing the reason
to meet the new morning
without tears
or regret.
This conversion will last
half-past the dissipation
when holy water--
on baby's brow and now
in the pockets of your peignoir--
finally dries.
Ecclesiastes 11: 9-10
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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