Book of Praises: Anything

I will go down with a shout of joy
when the horses are underfoot;
I will duck my head under singing glory
when the airships go supernova –

you are a still, small voice in my head:
be still and know I am draining you
of all things bitter and giving
another gall.

I will burble blood to the tune of your hope
when the lead is in my lungs;
glassy-eyed, I will stretch out a hand
when these cities have imploded –

your tank treads are thunder in my ears:
be still and know I am the master
of games, of war, of clubs, of hearts,
of anything at all.

Book of Praises: Knowledge

I’m not a knower of things,
I admit it; your plotlines run
deeper than my imagination.

I’m not a fathomer of depths;
when you stand with plumbline
in hand, I am
slackjaw.

I’m not a good writer;
I’ve gotten this far
to find you with a red pen
and eraser,

as if to say, “You don’t know
anything, and that’s enough.”

Book of Praises: Thema

For the many days you spent
knitting me in amneosis,
I praise you;

for this morning’s sweet vomit
written before you spoke the world,
I praise you;

for the glory of your name
inked deep in my subconscious,
I praise you;

for yellow lines broken so
others may get somewhere,
I praise you;

for the last few words of this poem,
simple phrases, easy letters,
I praise you, and
praise you again.