Friday, March 7, 2008


We've seen a little pain,
yellow McDonald's wrappers
more numerous than fish,
a missing row of crosses
aside the camouflaged road.
His Face set as flint
toward a new Jerusalem,
unarmoured innocents
slaughtered behind polling booth curtains.

The crusade's a broken record
written in a half language
shy of troublesome vowels.
A cup of water to the least of these
a silent, hidden page,
awaiting ink.

I tried tattooing scriptures
on my arms, but its the registered
heart that tells.
A pen is only mightier
than the sword
if you can read.

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