Poll: 3.2.1.?
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View poll results: 3.2.1.?
5 63%
[color=navy]Angel’s Advocate[/color]
2 25%
[color=green]Wine Glass Religion[/color]
4 50%
Voters: 8.

We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said. ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I etched her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke. ‘the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go.’ She sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried. ‘we’re really ****ing stuck.’
‘Close your eyes, we’re in a ship. Okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
And there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows,
And for a moment the sun swung behind a cloud.
‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.

Angel’s Advocate

I painted a line to the sun.

It was the Mono Lisa of weightless red
obscurity to lead the assimilated to the purity
of blindness. Because that’s the closest
we can get to God;
a tunnel vision of black on black
with no light at the end,
testing the true fabric of

And until the gravity of the stars
collapse on themselves, I will continue
to spit bristles onto galactic canvas
in an attempt to perfect, inflict,
project and contradict
a perpetual void
of resistance that flows
through the very veins
of a sleepwalking nation.

When the time is right
you’ll witness my might
in a magnificent display
of acrylic rain pouring
down upon our vacant flesh,
like beauty simplified
to a single hue.

Angels will be born into salvation.

Wine Glass Religion

Momma gathered us to the table
poured wine into our cups and called our attention.
We folded our hands as
she began to pray.

"Dear Lord:
Cleanse the earth of all that is unholy.
Remove the lips from unholy whores.
Rip the lungs from inner city filth;
those that haunt the bowels of the world,
that they might not curse you again.
Bring the niggers back to your loving bosom.
Show mercy on all those damned politicians who
rape the minds of the young and preach contrary to
your merciless love..."

"Mother, just stop."

Her eyes flared,
finally resting upon me
and burning into my cheeks.
I maintained eye contact,
took my wine in hand and
poured Jesus to the floor.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.