After the Flood

Ryan had purpose, but Ryan had dirt
     under his crucifixion nails, herding
     his secret burden into new versions
     of good news he’d always tell his converts

     when those virgins wouldn’t sell him burning
     passage to their volcano temples in
     the deepest reaches of Hell, up their skirts,
     downriver of respectable, telling

     all those girls, ‘It’s alright to act like you’re
     an animal if you know you’re right, since
     even beasts need to eat on evenings
     such as tonight, moonlight brighter than your

     hunger’s carnivorous pale, whiter than
     innocence under your dress where dark men
     lay their fingers, blessing you, praying for
     Heaven to waive grace and let them dig in.’

Dying of thirst, his lust dried him up, hurt
     circumstance, and fired his hot undoing;
     scorched with what he wanted to do to them,
     Ryan searched his heart, but Ryan never

     had much of one to start, so wondering
     what purpose hands had if not to touch things,
     he felt up his followers who at first
     thought that god had brought what clouds would not bring:

     manna and milk to these hunnies hungered
     for his thing; his charisma, his charism
     gifting their world his presence caressing
     them where such holy men shouldn’t, under

     no supervision, he loosed from prison
     his wicked serpent which went whispering
     into naïve ears its truculent girth,
     convincing those girls they needed baptism.