Sermon

Poets are gods or god-like-liars,

or liars-like-God, & me & my poems

platonically drink from the same flask

as God, but only sometimes—

I almost transgress. I’m all tongues.

Can’t commit to sinner or saint,

which makes me a sinner.

If I’m not holy, I’ll play at taking up

my father’s mantle accidentally, preaching

from a pulpit anointed with shame, consecrated

in concern—I am named Sarah, not for

the woman, but for her post-doubt devotion.

I am a devotional unto myself, finally

sacrificing silence for righteous anger—read

this as table-flipping—all the money changers’

coins raining onto stones at my feet.

All hail the princess of reverent blasphemy—

refusal to submit is my crown of thorns.

I’m sorry not sorry to defile this sanctuary

with my unclean methods & symbology, but

I’m no false prophet, no angel-of-light masquerade

here to bring about an end-time fantasy—

I am a terrible atheist,

but I am a great god.

I get my nourishment where I can,

feed the five thousand with scrap metal melted

down from crosses & altars & all the other idols

men built in place of poetry in place of me—

I am the author of my own salvation—

see me move the mountains, see me edit myself

into holy books, & proofread the world

until you see that it is still bad—

I am a god

because this is how I keep myself—

give me formless & void, not all this wreckage to re-create.