Praying in old temples and missions
Is more conversion and red knees
Than looking for forgiveness
Among holy dirt, rituals
And adorned Madonna’s.
Sometimes I wake
And Mohammed is more
A boxer than prophet.
Miracles come out of
Families of dysfunction
And rings of the pugilist more often
Than a rider ascending to heaven
On a flaming chariot.
There is a belief among boulevard trees
Who worship oversized vehicles; that God
Is in the topiary. And there are those
Trees who believe it is the devil
In the edgings.
Why is there a book of Lamentations
And no book of Oz- a book of Psalms
And no Howl in the canon
Of sacred texts.
When one finds a new
Lost scroll, dead or otherwise,
Do we keep them under a bushel
And whittle out what makes good
Kindling? All stories spark fire
Saints and prophets are full of this refuse
There mouths spitting orange embers.