RogueAgent

i’m in touch with God, but the voice of prayers
is losing to the credibility gap.

everything i crave is shapeshifting 
into partiality as if God runs my system
of government—a kind of favouritism where you

must have a brother who knows the health
commissioner who knows the doctor to

administer amphetamine to the patients.
a  girl is rupturing in the theatre, & i knell to

inform God, but she quickly loses air—
body-stiffed already.

so tell me, how do you reconcile tragedy out
of God’s hands with dead faith?

useless telling me i’m downtrodden. no doubt.
otherwise, i would have plucked sweet

promenades as much as i grow grave flowers.
poor tithes prevent salvation, the priest says.

& i have nothing except this heart shifting to the abdomen.

so tell me, what other perfection’s needed to
stifle a teenager at moribundity?

God, i’m trying healing every means;
become awaken dogs to count the rosary

at the velocity of running rats.
what more to this body not to crawl into Your

 mercy, into Your palms.
or am i too butterfingered to grace

that what i offer as prayers are mere mawkish monologue
spinning weird unicorn my head inside?

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