Heir of S

My father is an artist

who tramps on empty port bottles 

slashing crosses 

forearms glistening with gore  

the drainage of the grape-God 

gripping the wheel with blood-stained palms

he steers into Christ’s Ziziphus  

Glabrous yellow fruit 

pierced by shards of windshield glass  

And he will touch it,  

and he will not die.  

For his eyes will be opened 

and he will know good 

and he will know evil  

And he will braid thorns through my hair

and and and 

as the sun falls on this biblical dream 

he will choke the snake with its own tail 

handing the skin to his heir 

smoking his camel red into the night.  

Its acrid smell entrenched in my memory

prayers prevail over visions cemented in fright

My father is an artist 

who dances drunkenly on Willard beach

out of the grassroots 

and into the pounding waves 

saltwater sluice 

This is not a baptism 

It's a sacrifice 

there are soldiers in the seaweed 

They tighten their noose  

around his heathen throat  

Along with the soft skeleton of coral reef 

They press down on his nebular soul

Symphonies of a temptress  

Rock the belief in our maker  

It is night, it is dark, and he will die 

he made the world his canvas

and painted with blood

with vomit and whiskey

with mud

My father was an artist

who created the most beautiful thing of all 

I am the saint of lost causes running through hell’s

station 

and I pluck these thorns from my hair  

demanding  payment in kisses and conversation  

So, he might return to the start and dissolve himself of sin 

And he will touch me,  

and he will not die.  

For his eyes will be opened 

and he will know good 

and he will know evil