David and I are not so different By Evan M Peck
As tulips twisted wildly under my fingernails I tore them back, to see what I could see
Supposing softer things than twelve disciples wandering through a desert masked in dimpled twitches of hope
And it’s wrong to tell what I tell them. how it ends, I mean.
Just as it’s wrong to presuppose the ending of enigmatic snowstorms. But in my red-mittened me, I do anyways. I desire to guzzle hot chocolate – to melt my stomach into card games and kashmir naps. I do hope for things.
That way I can sit besides the likes of Louis Armstrong, and his sunshine softened songs. Or walk alone awhile
But the second act, that – that’s when it all happens. The crackled doorways I mean. Where he touches wrists and weeps, though only gently. And where a woman in wailing cloths says something about hallelujah. And David trembles under glory.
That’s what strikes me. The shaking – of ground of knees
of David and his majesty. The type that cries Bathsheba and glory in a shattering of teeth. That’s what makes me tremble
But so does Stevie Wonder – his own s h a t t e r i n g calamity. An outpouring and unpouring of orchestrated chaos so closely resembling me.
But I suppose that’s where I end in the end – with fruity lattes, terrible poems, and sunsets that only preclude the rest of it.
So as butterflies sit cordially at crusted tables in my stomach – sucking salty cigars and blowing smoke into my lungs, their wings vomit creative storms