The Blood Test Failed

God knows that I am flawed.
I am an impure toilet.

All alone,
I saw myself as I am.

Door to door
I went.

For a week
I whispered
beneath entities.

Foul.
Slavery.

We must remember:
all prophecies are lies—
platitudes
in sacred drag.

Theory after theory
sacrifices calves,
finding smaller prisons
inside larger ones.

It is passé now
to mistake theory for truth.

Salvation and destruction
fornicate—
silent
as a violin hemorrhaging.

With prophecy,
conspiracy is inevitable.

The fields are plowed
to the horizon.
Something was buried there before belief.

Love is submitted as evidence.

The elite serial killers
are among us.

A motorcade.
A storefront.
A room without windows.

Strike that.
Reverse it.
Call it reason.

Silently,
my pain came
from hands unseen.

The script beneath the script.
The hand inside the glove.

I took a blood test
and failed.

It predicted everything
except itself.

Ego
poked the beehive
of the greater world.

Mastery
learns
to hide its hands.

Seething gold
on the altar.

White petals
motionless—
anger
that learned to wait.

Mysteries remain
between sheep
and goats.

The left-handed trumpeter
trumpets
for them.

My enemy stands
stupidly—
fear
posing as strength.

Rats carry
the wrath of love
every fifteen minutes.

My eyes are alert.
So I believe them.