Snakes Can’t Kneel to Pray

My artillery lips
were firing a kiss
onto a little heart
which kept eluding me.

’Round it twined were all the
cursive conscripts; diehard
hypocrites & heretics
waiting to fuck-up this

opportunity. They
slipped in through the McVeigh
consciousness exploding
part of my existence—

that part of my head which
leapt o’er faith by holding
snakes who can’t kneel to pray;
sneaking memories way

too pagan even to
say—those instincts so, so
dangerous your own fears
can’t fly from their venom.

Waging words against them,
I slayed them. Balladeers,
like Brahmins, kill ego
with a silent deathblow.