king of kings

king of kings

I grab you like a damp cloth and into an obsidian bowl I wring you out
everything about you from your blood and soul and breath weeps forth
in a silver stream like mercury and pools in quiet perfect stillness
and softly each drop falls and the ripples become waves and overflowing
you rush from your tiny bowl an ocean that will not subside
not only enduring but thriving you push and I gather all there is about me
from my blood and soul and breath and with it I push back
and you are contained again in an obsidian bowl from which I take just one sip
and with just one sip you are obliterated, and completely and satisfyingly
gone

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I was thinking the other day about soap commercials. Anti-bacterial, moisturizing, exfoliating, deep-cleaning, shea butter and all manner of rendered fat. Lye and ammonia and caustic chemicals that would kill you in concentration, you’re rubbing on your body and your floor and your clothes. I suppose that’s true mastery of the world around you—taking what would kill you and making it useful to yourself. Making poison your bitch. Fill a bathtub with water and glycerin and float a little duck on it and sink yourself into it and soak out all your sins. Baptism by Lever 2000.

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I’m a bag full of needles and old lollipop sticks
a galaxy full of dead and dying stars
a teenage diary filled with boring, contrived sorrows
somehow just a broken, sorry, bleeding little boy with my finger on the trigger
I’m spinning and spinning and sparking and grinning
I’m the king of kings

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I was in the waiting room again and it was the third week in a row that the little girl hadn’t been there. I caught myself worrying and attempted in vain to dismiss her absence. I hope they cured whatever she had. I hope that, no matter what the actual matter was, she’s fine. I think maybe she had cancer, maybe she was in therapy because she was scared to die. I think maybe she moved away from the person that was abusing her. I think maybe all her problems were solved. I think maybe her insurance only covered eight weeks.

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Absolve me of sin and you will send me to oblivion
For all I am is sin
I’m vile and altogether a bad, bad influence
But a savior
So I come to you, father, in this dark little room
And I ask you to forgive
But do not remove from me all that I’ve done
Do not pardon my experience
Do not release me of my good work
It took an awful lot to be this complicated
And you should be so lucky as to touch my hand
And feel a sickening warmth from my fingers
As I absolve you of the sins you think we don’t see
As I nod and beg Mother Mary to save my soul

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I get kind of ahead of myself sometimes and I get kind of full of myself sometimes and I use words I don’t need for things I don’t really need to say. I would go all day without uttering a word if I knew in doing so the next thing out of my mouth would be that much more special. There’s a story about a man who saves up all his words to say I love you to the woman he loves over and over. I think I might just feel that sort of way about you. I might save my words up all day, all year, if by doing that they show the general great-bigness of what I feel.

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I am made of glass and steel
Solid and strong and crystalline and rippling
And the steel in me bends and wears and breaks
And the glass in me explodes into a thousand pieces
As I hear your voice
I shatter into shrapnel and shards.