Like A Prayer

I know that I am wicked, the way my
fingers curl into you. The way the
hunger hardens into an edge.  The
way the red flesh parts to the core.

I think of the blood that will slick
my lips, I think of christ in the garden
fingering an apple. The gasp of cyanide.
Waiting for your hands to hold me
under the tide line of your hips. 
My mouth follows the maps of your
femoral arteries. Tell me the words
I am too close to see.
It is a season of ragged extremes
where thoughts are heresy and vulgar desire
trespasses against immaculate flesh.
The golden death rippling.
After a skin grows over the moment
and the air is scrubbed of oxygen.
I am ripe for redemption.  Licked clean
as a razor blade.




.

I want to wake up in the hands of the ocean
a child of a new medium,
salty kisses to wash away the sand
that has settled  into my windward corners.
the sharpness of cactus
and tumbleweeds
replaced with the slippery  green
of seaweed
 
let me feel the pull and release of the moon
as she plays with the water.
 
instead of the dirt devils driving
me to shelter  with their shrieking
curses through windows and bones
give me the siren’s song and its reasons
to seek a new destruction

.

It is Saturday morning, so why
not fall in love, letting the grass
blades bend into my back
while the blue gathers in the sky.
It’s a lie. I am in bed
and the sky is probably already white
with heat. It is August and your
eyes are blue until I see them again.

.

Polyester gods smooth 
into crevices.  It is a sin the
way it creeps, the humidity
darkening into desire. 
This atmosphere is picked clean.
I want more than the ache
of continued existence, my hands
are too close to your heart. 
But never crossing.  Already
the air between us is thin. 
Do you feel slighted?   
An indifferent crucifixion
suffocates, eyes averted. 
You linger in dilation, 
will your eyes turn white
when there is no blood? 
There is always blood. 
I lick my fingers clean
because they know
their way home.

.