The Rosewood Bible

              Father Azfalti's, "Scripted City Confessional"

Poetry isn't something you feel on the page

You feel it in your brain

As thoughts change

To steelfire blues

Or mint greens

Or cherry pit reds

Or whatever the color of your cherry pit heart

Let it wash over your gritty face

Comb fingers through your filthy hair

So gentle...

Those little broken universes

Spilling softly past your loose, subway tongue

Tumbling out of your blurring, courier lips

How does it taste?

Like that certain iron tang,

New to people of the hills

Do not condemn it because it is not yours

It can never be anyone's so long as you are whole

Because poetry will always taste different

For not words

Phrases, sentences, stanzas, chapters or books

Can contain the voices of raw emotion

Poured through a hollow pen-tip

And just because it can fit through that little pen

Does not mean your voice cannot be made of galaxies

Your thoughts are like

Fragmented eternities

Cut and stitched in the mind of a sculptor

Just because your stitches aren't all even

Does not mean your are odd

You are art

My little lady

Just because your stitches come undone with slight tug

Will NEVER mean that your aren't the warmest

Metal jacket to me

If you can just pull that cord

Let fabric fly

Set fire to the sky

And burn your busy little brain down to root functions of human decency

I can feel the poetry seeping beneath your veins

Like the street beating rhythm

Concrete padding softly

Asphalt humming warmly beneath my skin

Your are a part of me

That wet asphalt in the streaking sun

You pour out your pores to me

Jet steam jetted from your sweet soul

Soaking softly into my body

Those paradoxically

Sweet toxins

Open your lids

Steel eyed princess

Confess your conviction

And seek absolution in the lines printed deep on my spilt ink fingertips

Your gentle hand put them there

In the name of the father

The mother

And the holy city

 

                      Amen