There's a tangle of weeds

In my grassroot soul.

But rather than pluck them out

          one by one.

I will grow out the good.

Dirt lay

Beneath the fingernails of yesterday.

But what we scratched

Is scraped already.

And already we pray for confetti and ticker-tape

To cover the mud we just tracked.

I daresay, kill the tile shine.

Throw buckets of gunk across the walls

And oil upon the soiled floor.

Then see how you slide across it.

It's when you're busy fabricating

Pristine mirages

That the devil slips in


To chew away at corners

Of your screaming soul.

And the seeds of sin are planted

While you're dreaming up a way

To shed the 'human.'

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