The woods ripple with the burble of streams and cries of songbirds. Ecstasy in the sun, pleasure in the wind brushing wildflowers and spreading pollen abreast bees sailing across the silver air, honey and cream and buttery yellow dandelions all resplendent and endless. Heaven is wherever you are, my archangel, my prince, my knight in angel’s armor. You are perfection manifest, and in our tangle of limbs, I can see the beginning and end of Creation, and every poem in between. Your song is my life, my life is your psalm, and together, we are immaculate.
Hallelujah, that the weak may be mighty.
Hallelujah, that the warrior might know peace.
Hallelujah, that the singer’s locs be long.
Hallelujah, that the artist’s palette is never dry.
Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.
Red hair held back by a paintbrush.
Caressing Bob Ross landscapes on canvas.
I know Hebrew in my dreams, but I know your face
in every single shard of you, Michael, ochre-splattered
jeans, five o’clock shadow, losing yourself in brush strokes.
Hallelujah sings the broken man as he learns to love again.
Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.
Reflection of God. He Who is God. Image of God.
I may be the moon but you are my sun.
And in your artist’s studio, Michael, I find respite.
Hallelujah toll the bells of Paradise. Honor to Thy Lord.
He is not My Lord, He is not Your Lord, for You are Him,
and to worship God is to worship Love and Creation.
To worship Jah is to make sweet life on a paintbrush.
God is a Poet. God is a Lover. God is an Artist.
Jah is All, Hallelujah, sweet trembling soul.
His strength cradles me, cradles you, lifts up
the dusky night and brings Paradaisical Day.
Michael, sweet Jah, sweet Yah, in you I know God.
In you I know Father. In you, I know redemption
in the colors of grass and wine, gilded in gold leaf.
You painted me into Creation and breathed life into my
trembling hands. I would die for you again, always, only
save your tears for sacred reunions, this is not
Nineteen year old in white lace and satin gloves,
choking her own throat to bruise blossom hurricane –
the spiral twister comes from her screams, lifting
cattle and dead wood up in her agony, she clenches
her esophagus in a dead vice grip, starved of air,
because mental wards and curses of psychosis are raw
after a half-dozen years of black roses. I offer her
flowers, daisies and daffodils, and she smiles, lets
go of the death hold on her throat, the black rot on
her heart is kintsugi gold, shattered but now whole,
and her forefather weeps at her freedom, breaking
his ribs open to make her his Eve in pooled reflections
of puddles, lives pass, deaths come, births go, but
the girl is nine now, alone in a haunted movie theater,
and horror reels play on the screen, the Devil is in
a bowler hat and has red gall eyes – I bring light into
the darkness, promise her she will heal, and nine year
follows nineteen into flowering fields and forest ripe
with deer and rabbits, spring blossoms in golden curls,
and quarter century, nineteen, and nine dance in ruins.
From those ruins rises a phoenix of hope, and love heals.
Bruises blossom on blue, blood flows like wine.
You don the blindfold of the executioner, ride
on to the cusp of vespertine curses, the bright
moon is snuffed out by your rebellion, you swing
your axe and the guillotine of your heart reigns
over my beheaded ego. Unleash my demons and run.
I need something sweeter than your
violent love, something softer
that folds up like white origami
in my cotton pocket, yours is
the covenant of monsters,
mine is the flock of sheep,
and darling dead vampire,
you are no longer my moon.
I am my own sun, a star.
And my light is a lovely
If I am rich in anything,
it is in good company.
The snake is a snicker-snack Vorpal blade fanged with moonlight.
My kingdom is ashes and wine. My neck a fluted glass smashing
open to welcome incisors to drink ruby red time. Counting stars
in Hell is like pulling teeth. If I dress in taffeta and lace,
am I a ballerina or backstage whore? Glamorous slut of indulgence.
A Jezebel to the prince, courtesan to the king, the general’s girl.
This year was the year of excess, this year was the year of ruin,
of IV drips through lover’s lips and crystal palaces of danger.
Fuck me harder, love me softer, crack my ribs and make a corset.
I’m blood drunk love drunk stoned as a bird falling slap dash
into your arms, my angel, my demon, so bang me high and holy,
scratch the chromium paint off my mouth, and unearth my lost air.