waste of holy liquids

There is a man in my shower,
though as he is unaware of that fact as all others. Apparently
there is this peculiar connection between comprehension and pulse
that disallows the former without the later.

Unfortunate that. What perfectly thick blood
is too frequently desecrated by mere lack of comprehension.
But more importantly, what glorified essence that undoubtedly awaits
inside the aftermath of that last heartbeat!

Those unseeing eyes swimming in my bathtub know. It only took
a lustful intrusion into privacy, an innocent glance into the trees
cleverly filled by the extension of a seductive tilt of naked hips, indulgent nod, smile,
and a subsequent, gratifying crack of the skull

…but look at his eyes now. What reality
must be exposed when sight is bathed in sacred red.
I wash my hands in that holy liquid,
then scrub my face, with careful attention to my eyes.

But no matter how my hands shake with repetition,
or hot my tears fall in irritation, black is what persists
as unsympathetic instinct wipes those brief moments of hope from my vision.
Frustration is what finally stills my attempts to gain holy knowledge.

The enduring warmth of the blood tempts my lips to part
and tongue to taste this curiosity of a wine. The back of my throat
remembers satisfaction after the faint scent of dust
had migrated to my nose, escaping the spit that too readily dissolved the delicate flavor.

I long to intoxicate myself
in this import from Nazareth. But the window is open
and the vulnerable light of my bathroom has appealed
to the suddenly stormy night’s hunger.

It is then I realize if I were dared the opportunity,
I could never walk on water.

waste of holy liquids


Clarkston, United States

  • Artist
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