Mansions of the Flood

“I deviate, farewell to the tribe.”

How did I come to live in this disintegrating stare? Paper…

…the parched fundament desiccated in Promethean ovens traced with seductive coils of concertina.

It’s my own fault, really. Could have packed wax and tied spine to the naked now.

How long thirsting on the burning deep?

But the mirror sees neither wretch nor need for atonement.

But the cabin clock is now bleeding gears

telling me that it is time to unbolt embassy of ribs

to the reign of blessings.

How long standing stupified and schizophrenic on acrid sands while

quenching benediction waited in the spaces between scalpel slices

hoping

for my

praying?

Bowing on before the ground I beg you:

accumulate celestial legions, astral congress

rise as boiling towers to the rapturous sky

crash in overwhelming silver cataracts

on me.

Extinguish the sun.

Raise the moon

on invincible waters.

Drown hoary queens and coming kings.

Coronate the Holy This.

Palm out, a few cool drops sit in the canyons of my life briefly, collapse, and return to mystery.

Have to laugh; I’m no rainmaker. But I can hope.

Hope that somewhere, in some lonesome subterranean chamber,

a seed is slowly bursting.