Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

For M.L.

Who’s looking into your eyes but God?
Wait for Him to speak; no-one else has been here
Ever. You know your history: the zealots, ardent seers,
Acolytes you have studied craved this audience. Your hot
Hands move headwards, as if to keep the knowledge in
For fear that spilling a drop would dispel Him now.
He’s taking you apart cell by cell, sin by sin,
You feel Him flicking through your every page for evidence of how
You’ve veered, broken promises, declared false loves. This is what you’ve wished
For so long: the most thorough scour. The filth’s accumulated unseen
Year on year, darkening frames, collecting in corners. Now at last you lift
Your chin: eyeball to eyeball. But He’s not here to leave you clean.
He’ll never speak nor judge you as your books have said.
One blink, the room is empty; unopened jar of pills still by the bed.


Adam Cole

Well-written and intriguing. I know it's in there but I've looked right through it--three times now and the third wasn't the charm. I'll try once more. Certainly the cuisine is different from our usual. jim

I'm glad to be able to bring something rather different to the table, Jim. I hope fourth time was the charm? All best wishes. Adam

Adam-- and, sincerely, thanks and welcome-- this is great, and a great voice among many great and diverse voices here (I'm sure you've already seen that in experiencing the art all over here...rich in inspiration and grace, honest in life and, often, in its hurts). You inspired me here...and I share as the only response I have, not that it probably is the best or even the most fitting...but I'm trying to explore words again in writing, and thanks for eliciting a piece of that.

Our modern scholars of our ancient time
have often noted falsehoods in the crucifix
of art & piety—and I’m
prepared to trust them, trust what’s true is true—
prepared to trust my god in other than
its savior’s passion beautiful and strong
and sculpted as the paragon of man
in heroes' form and modest like a thong
around his genitals. Yet naked, red
with sunburn— weak and flabby and distressed—
or left behind where dogs would eat instead
of buried in the roses’ graveyard: blessed,
but still, may be those dogs like I who eat
their sustenance from him in blood-soaked meat.