burning bush

You live in the deception,
that the flock of wandering sheep
believe in your jaded ideology of guns, gays and God.
Yet, I no longer allow you the privledge
of perpetrating your moral scheme.
Steal not my God!

You are not the architect
of the rightous moral vision,
those who whisper your doctrine
speak in forked tongue and fetid breath.

You are not the architect
of a peaceful world vision,
for you build not upon a foundation
of understanding and hope.

You have stolen my God,
through words of deceit
(faith, belief, morals)
and slogans of slander
(hatred of freedom, love of war).

I now return my God to his throne,
and his son to the mighty reign of his left!

For I see my God in her eyes;
my eternal love and devotion.
Her pure desire to protect his divine earthly creation,
to preserve his handedness
in this natural verdant planet.

Speak of that to the flock,
the beauty of God's earth,
created in the first days of genesis,
and maybe then you will understand the meaning of conviction!

~j. allen

dying touch

frail hands before me
the cold touch of spasmodic impulses
the purple and black reaction
of the dying crescendo.

holding your hands marks the cold flesh:
loss of the warm bath of blood,
the viscous nutrients starve the sensation
burning the finger-tips away as the wick of a flame.

the love embrace of intertwined digits
replaced by the desquamations disfiguring mark
masking the beauty of tactile intimacy.

~ j. allen

contamination

where have all the liberals gone?
why have they been cast to the outer limits of human understanding?
do we not all bleed of patriotic pride in our heritage?
why then, can we not cross examine the doctrines of society
without the scourge and wrath of the rightous?

allow me to ask questions of the high order of skull and bones;
never having basked in the glow of a sacred fire
nor walked the hallowed halls of the league of ivy and fraternity,
yet my heart has earned the respect of intellect
believing that my inquisitions demand action and response!

do not silence the green world which i believe grows in us all
a fundamental ideology of peace, equality and justice,
yet the rightous proclaim a monopoly on the tenenants of the oath and law of scouts,
mere boys who recognize the fallacy in the rightous arguement,
the banal ramblings and greedy consumption of global neocons.

deception

I will remain forever silent,
bottled inside a sphere of deceit and deception,
I fester and ache.

Sprawled out
heart open on the dissection table:
Do you see the part labeled with your name?
The tissue that beats only for you,
the ventricle through which blood nourishes and lust infects?

I inscribe your name there,
branded in this moment of bitter pain and sorrow.

~j. allen

glaze

was it so wrong of me to deliver
the dozen krispy kreme's -
the glaze, colored revelry of sprinkled
visually increasing glycemic index's -
to the doctor's and nurses
on the second floor?

never mind the diabetic patient
waiting in the lounge for the news
on the numbers,
anxious for the results;
pondering through the haze
of the retinopathic glaze.

never mind the man,
arteries sludging along
whose lipids have waged war
upon the gentle beat;
he won't mind
pass him a fritter
and a little something for his liver.

~ j. allen

see the darkness in emotion

Systemic Septic Depression

Ask her a question,
seek the knowledge of her ills and pain.
Take the first steps down the healing path.

Yet, when she reveals
the depth of her loss
and the void created in death,
you bypass her heart,
appealing instead to her visible scars,
and the alchemy on the differential:

Insomnia,
loss of the will to see into the future,
absence of the feeling of life;
“the spark that burned in my heart, it (he) has died Doctor,
please give me a tincture and potion to absolve death and cure despair.”

Answer her pleas O’ great master of the healing arts!
The loss now is yours,
the medical mind keen to the symptoms,
yet your hands merely treat the epidermal wounds;
local anesthetic, apply salve of wavering sympathy,
sterile gauze, wait for the tears to dry and the emotion to clot.

Could you be that fearful of your own mortality?
Is that the excuse?
Doctor, you missed the mark,
the saline tears spoke the true illness,
burdened below the “pain in my back and shortness of breath.”

Your script will never heal her,
she is gone now to the septic death – depression –systemic.

~j. allen