I dial up a Psychodelic Jesus shower head
In swallowing the last bit of cold cut combo
In meeting His soft, kind eyes, and darker wavy locks
I wonder if my Lord is hungry.
I’m still not full in spite of ham and cheese.
No lunch today for meeting needs,
and so I’m paying dues in hunger pangs
even after late, late lunching.
The shower head is fasting too,
not taking in
It’s spilling out,
giving, giving sweet salvation.
It’s Jesus after all! Who knew?
The other shower heads are plugged
with calcium deposits,
rendered useless and disposable in failed beliefs,
all dead and waiting lime away
unlike this new deluxe improved one
I am gazing at.
I take it in my hand and play it like a drum,
A padded, sound-proof studio
of solo repeated rifts
a muppet movie exclusive gift
Then midstream mind-stream,
in choosing slower beats,
Decide to Click away
the Delta youtube advertisement
Replete of runs,
Amazing water features
not unlike my own.
Warm water rains and runs off a marble fountain
plays me as if a deep massaging geyser
and I perform my own delayed attempt
at praising chakras.
“Stop your words,” I tell my throat.
Somehow my words are wiser, sweeter in their absence.
the meaning more profound and less diminished
in sighing ecstacy
Or else, Co2 side effects
Converge with mist and missed Misters
in proclamation of a family
of man and woman
What’s proper here in having sex,
if in the climax, ends in keeping separate rooms?
Where everyone assumes the status quo,
Reality is…He snores.
What would anyone know of this thing,
or of this blessed showering
unless someone were brave enough to tell the story?
Or stupid enough.
Venn? The human race is good at comparing, competing, judging.
And what will other Utah counties do
in watching from the Summit
the Issue of 41 same-sex licenses
between Dec. 20 and Three Kings Day?
To follow suit, not likely.
Our county is unique.
Still, Religion will not easily forget
or turn the other cheek
in showering these stories.
What do I care in looking on from straight and narrow paths?
This is not me.
Or is it?
The white shower curtain looks more gray some days
and yellows on the bottom.
The butterflies have flown away.
And I have netted this netted thing for the last time
in possessing the strange new feeling
Only since I met and knew you
in a mermaid mind
Gaze falls on gauzy lace, soft and luscious lipstick.
Drops a weighted shower curtain hook in sliding open and slamming closed.
Slips and falls a loud accusatory PING!
Like makeup in a toothpaste dropping sink
Cuts through a wounded shower curtain dressing that won’t stay dressed.
It has almost come undone!
Did not fall completely though.
Spared the rod.
The child too ’til almost new again.
Just from the plastic package
No. Not so new now.
A once, all crisp and creased,
just mortgaged car smell,
like spring, and yesterdays before exquisite summer writing
This lost now to the maintenance of being good.
The hook and clasp cuts through the fog these days.
Through shower ringing Fiona Apple butter-knives
In spreading apple butter.
I love the smell, and feel and taste
of oil on backs and back-sides.
Careful….I am someone’s sweet knife wife.
The curtain is the gauzy type.
A wedding veil and vow. A death shroud in I’m not allowed.
And surely would cause hype if missionaries were to walk in,
or boys collecting offerings were to ring the bell.
Transparent in the looking in and looking out
All right to shower, but not allowed to touch.
I see too much and do too little toward perfection,
in asking what life’s all about.
Presume too much, and hide and seek exceptions to the rules.
I am getting saved
while buying high efficient, stainless steel appliances
and better work habits toward best practices.
Instead of high exposure nakedness in choosing not to ration,
I’m washing paper plates, and writing names on solo cups.
I’m filling and refilling waterbottles, instead of buying conveniences.
I think on this Initiatory
in cleaning up the language and the deeds
and clearing clogged drains of long blonde hairballs.
The greasy stinking sting tugs and strains.
Makes me quite insane at times.
And yet, I’m still found beautiful for Jesus.
My locks fall tight and curly from my head
Like a crown of thorns,
a tourniquet to thinking.
Slows blood flow toward dizzying in thinking nonsense
slows coveted improvement,
all plugged and reeking in extended work day writing.
Hot showers calm me down though
Prepare me for a drying and unfolding
A curing and a molding
Enfolding me in warmth from a favorite heated towel rack.
I hang and fall with ease in warmer reaching hands
as if a child in a hooded towel.
Clean white sheets
In washing and anointing,
A brand of divine nature slathers oil
approvingly on every square inch of my body.
Removing stretch marks to a more appealing Pandora play list
Lifts me up to Holy, Holy, Holy and broken Hallelujahs.
I CAN do this.
The singing helps toward believing
Will it so, and sometimes grow this faith.
But in denying truth for vices, commit the greater sin
sometimes in lieing to myself.
Sometimes I’m holy though.
Have mercy Lord…
I’m burning up with flu.
I never knew I could be capable of things so good and bad and live to see it.
And even if I could find the thermometer, it is broken, in not registering.
I empathize this scientific thing and ph strips
that don’t engage to color changing.
I liken scriptures to myself.
I think on Nina Luz’s muse:
Ode to Beloved mosses, lichens.
I wonder if I’ve stepped on toes again
on fragile Big Eye endangered species too,
that take a hundred years to grow an inch of tundra
In saying and loving tons…destroy the thing I love the most,
with heavy reckless mukluks
Wreck that which is precious and unique.
Hear Yoda’s voice say hauntingly,
“Won’t come back……what if the readers?”
What if they don’t come back?
What if you don’t come back?
I think around this point at length…
And then they do. And then you do,
in spite of all my fighting and rebellion.
You are near me
Like a Psycho-deli-c Jesus shower head
knowing and loving me
in spite of myself.