December 15

Arise, grim Lazarus,

there’s work to be done.

Like a leopard to the kill,

you return and feast on me,

tail idly flicking at my dreams.

The One True Cross you’ve tucked away

in your dung-covered cloak

to use for toothpicks.

Spider, toad, devourer of hours,

I know you’re often bored

with nothing to do when things go well–

then you shrivel like a spore and

I fantasize I’m rid of you.

But the tiniest misstep,

the smallest doubt

is like spring rain:

demon seeds sown long ago

sprout with absurd speed

and up you clamber Jack-fashion

to slay a beloved, gentle giant.

With you the firmest ground  becomes

shifting sand that blows away

along with every grain of

poetry and song.

What’s left–

a fractured, blackened monolith

and foulest murder in the mind.

Oh traitor, what would I be

without you?

A carefree god or icon-carver

with golden wings

that glittered in the sun.

Dumb bastard, you don’t know what’s real.