my passion is that swarm of locusts
from which emerged John the Baptist
with grime in his hair and earth growing
from the tips of his righteous fingers.
I’m lost in it. the wind that beat against
the mountain on whose crest Elijah stood
to listen for the still small voice of God.
I want to be filled with something pure.
I was always jealous of the dead boy
laid out on the bed for the prophet Elisha,
unconscious and waiting for the renewing
breath of salvation and life.
the Holy Spirit sounds different to me now
than it did when I was in 6th grade.
now it sounds like the call of a Siren,
imploring, desperate, personal, willing
to make any false claim so that it might
snatch up the remnants of my purpose.
my passion is the rope that binds me
to the mast and I’m the only one whose ears
aren’t plugged up with wax. I know that because
I still hear the Sirens.
and I can’t discern the truth.
do I trust those creatures, do I trust my crewmen,
do I trust the violent seething desperate
yearning that fills my lecherous bones?
I think there might be some hope for me.
that so long as I fight to identify the truth,
it cannot be used against me.
my passion is a harlot like Rahab, a grieving
wanderer like Jeremiah, innocent like Ruth
and bloodthirsty like King David.
I’ve asked God for wisdom and he denied
it to me. give me my hundreds of concubines.
give me my desperation and my burning lust
for my same sex. give me bloody battlefields and
corrupted temples and slavery upon slavery upon
slavery. give me Samson’s jawbone dagger and
a dead concubine divided into twelve pieces and
the burning remains of Sodom and Gomorrah and then
show me where God is found in all of that.