I sit up at night thinking
about what you said--
about the eternal recurrence,
about equal trade.
About walking with my mouth
and nothing important to say.
Writing the same poem,
seventeen times,
and not knowing why.
But if the cliche tastes
on your tongue add salt.

We could rip out pages
of the Bible until only our testament
is left;
we could burn Christ in the fire
and keep that vengeful God.
You liked him better because
he grooved with your damage,
he held your habit high.
I think about how He
might pay for the Sin of Wrath.
I think about seven--in
days or deeds--
and wonder what it means.

And I think about where
I came from and find dust;
which you told me to expect.
The memories lose their meaning,
in my dream-junkie haze.
I could shoot up on eternity
and never look back
if you would give me my hand
I could smoke paradise
on the flame of faith.

If you would let me light up.

AKL 2005