The dog I was understudying to learn the art
of a calm sea obeying the Messiah’s voice
loses its teeth in a bone fight.
Patience was it that rot the flesh
off the bone into the night of a greedy dog.
I tell you truly, faith is what keeps me watching
the scene of this world changing
into obscene scenes,
not as I remoted but as it was written.
Once, I spat on my palm, spoke in tongue
like a man learning to defraud God
but the spittle didn’t display the world I crave for.
God knows it is not a sin to change
a channel from a violent scene into a school
of children singing nursery rhymes.
I was a leper in Jesus’ parable pleading
to resurrect in this poem.
And here I am loosing my fingers again,
flipping the scriptures for the portrait
of the Nirvana the prophecy spoke of.