prophet

beloved, I need to tell you that god can speak your language

I need to tell you that angels have better things to do than keeping score

that you are no less holy piss drunk

in pissed streets, in sweaty sheets

than you are in Sunday parking lots

or pews or potlucks or thoughts and prayers

I need to tell you that god cannot be contained, understood, jailed, or molded within pages of books

or lines of poems

for gods sake throw away this poem

I need to tell you that any spiritual leadership worth it’s pillars of salt

comes with permission to throw their words in the trash whenever you see fit

vessels are content to sit on a shelf until there is water to pour

please beloved, throw this in the trash

and if your heart aches you can smooth out the pages

words can only be made better by the creasing