Zealots and Pulpits

~this week’s poems~

we’ll always be such naughty little marionettes . . .

Prairie dirt shutters my windows

like a shrug, and I say that

melancholy shouldn’t feel this black–

the glass should be clear 

and the view beautiful, 

but out of reach; 

so that in here 

I’m zealous and austere

with equal parts 

grin and teeth.


Your angels wield agency

like devils play my strings.

Either way, we dance

together and detached,

our volition the cute smile

on the ash and bone cheeks

we anguish with tears and sweat

wiped lovingly away with their wings;

we’ll always be such naughty little marionettes.


I’m a zealot two drinks 

after dusk starts ticking 

on my temples, nervously

flicking the barbs on my crown

as they thicken with layers

of skin—I’m just that sort of saint,

a muse of worry, an artist

skinning canvasses in battles 

I have no hope of winning.


Above my pulpit 

swings a slip knot microphone, 

and the man in the mask

curates my words. 

He leads me up the steps 

to my best audience yet 

and pulls the mic tight. 

I clear my throat

against the rope

and I speak

through my shroud: 

my poetry

is immortalized 

through the hissing silence

of the crowd, 

the banality

of my last words 

overwhelmed

by their utter finality, 

and then 

people 

really 

really

listen. 

 

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