Angels and Shit don’t go Together

but sometimes they do,

I told her.

Sometimes the thing that brought you salvation

is the very thing that steals your soul.

What fools give their trust away

without a reason to exchange it?

We trade the commodity of hearts

enveloped in the ora of a kiss

thinking that our field of vision

had been the only thing absent from it.

And in that field, grass grows up

toward the complacent cows of promise,

before every dawn


all light

that ever existed.


Leave this place as you found it,

I ask,

in your travels

wayward west.

Until it is me you find

or until

you become east again.


And so it is the sun that knows this

as fire eats fire,

fire eats

the woodlands,

the elements of your hair

Disillusioned by the “self” in fearing

you were fix’n for Mad City

for the drink,

the forget.

You set yourself, an angel

against hungry wolves.

Circling wolves,

cycling pants of air from 

the berth in the throat;

with air so thick

it drowns the lungs,

Pain so great,

we fall over,

even in my dreams.


I remember my father state, but never

quite finish the phrase:

“What echo’s in this life…” 


And hearing it as a kid,

I thought he was asking me a question.

A question that continues to

reverberate me 

until I’m smacked upside the head by 

the concussion.


“Angels and shit don’t go together”


Perhaps it was the verse omitted from the day

when birds were unmistakably blotches in the sky

and Jesus walked off into the sunset,

not for the glory of salvation,

but to protest,

the altruism

in a misguided heart.


to protest my love for you.


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