What Does that Make Me?

Peter, don't You know that rocks sink in water?
You must have forgotten when you jumped off the boat.
I have faith but I walk on land,
Hand in hand with a security rope.
I keep giving Him dirt, but He keeps giving me flowers
And hiding the water behind His back
Then I scream nonsense from my Babylonian tower
Then sneak away and try to grow my own plants.

You are my anchor, but You are my ship?
Every second this makes less and less sense.
And You are the captain, but You need no crew
And You are the sails (and the winds that blow them too!)
So what does that make me? What else is left?
Perhaps I'm a rat, creeping below the deck.

Silence

When a tree falls in the forest
And no one is there to hear
It still makes a sound
But it's much quieter than this

Children are crying
And mothers are screaming
But still no one hears

An army marches
Building the steady beat of footsteps
Beneath a symphony of desperate cries
But still no one hears

The birds screech in the trees
And the jungle bleeds
But still no one listens

So we hush
Because in a world where screams and sirens clog eardrums
With monotonous indifference
Silence is the only thing that's loud

Sunday Night Fever

She fell Tuesday,
the night street splashed,
a crater cradling a smooth stone
     statuesque.
A monolith carved by Costa after
     being redeemed.
She was painted
     by the Sistine artist himself.
Olive walls and a door of Ivory
     prepared for passover.
The two emeralds shown so deeply
     naught but greed was incited.
A chestnut bushel of silk draped
     atop a summit entangled my fingers
and entranced my senses by the smell
     of the holiest anointing.

Alarmed, but only at my obliviousness,
for not until I graced the plume was I told-
     I was-blessed.
My fire tipped spear hailed an Ecstasy
   to prove St. Theresa cold.
Handfuls of feathers concocted sins,
     not even Bernini's chisel could carve.

Ballad for Mary J.

Mary J. is my mistress,
though we never kiss.
Naturale locks, littered with stems.
Never fail to draw me near.

Mary J. is my temptress,
wrapped in a skin tight dress.
or dancing in a diamond fireplace,
tantalizing airs asking for a taste.

Mary J. is a whore.
Slung from every corner store.
Pimped out to every man, woman, and child,
taking jobs, homes, and minds with moods so mild.

Just blaze in hell Madame Kush.