i. Voiceprint

                    In accordance with local tradition
               and particular custom, we cry with
          those who mourn, scorned journeymen performers
     weeping unforeseen and unscripted tears
of untold conviction, less frivolous

                    in our need to be seen this time, silenced
                         minstrels bleeding from behind blind eyes what
                              no one will realize is real until,
                                   without all the pieces of their broken
                                        spirits, they fear us as we rise into

                    catacombs of vacant ears, a grinning
               of bones bared lighting from within those kids
          whose ribs reverberate with slowed heartbeats
     waltzing to calming tempests of devout
chanting, waves of doubt pulsing against your

                                        whiplashes of harsh and rash judgments, such
                                   unfounded intolerance relenting
                              its reaction, your emptiness granting
                         prophecy an audience and for once
                    you listen, not wanting one’s existence

                                        ii. Wild Pitch

                    to end warming you up to this portent,
                         interested in its digression when
                              we find in the arms of the oracle
                                   of Memphis, in that whore’s embrace, with its
                                        scarlet parade of torrid promises,

compelling evidence of discarded
     gods who insist on keeping secret their
          credentials and reasons for sleeping so
               long on, and with, the living proof of true
                    miracles, for abandoning heaven

                                        in favour of Tennessee’s own temptress,
                                   Babylon’s little sister, and you hear
                              how we were, and how we all have been, so
                         hemmed in by this world’s damned labyrinth of
                    cursed water that not by speaking, but by

dying, drowning in its ink’s perversion
     of our reflections, drinking in clouds of
          illusions, could we overcome its mouth
               lying open near the foot of her bed,
                    your belief our souls’ only escape plan.