In The Church Of My Heart The

On I’ll Pass, Dragging My Huge Love Behind Me. On What Feverish Night, Deliria-ridden, By What Goliaths Was I Begot – I, So Big And By No One Needed?

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

In The Church Of My Heart The Choir Is On Fire

On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul The Steps Of Madmen Weave The Prints Of Rude Crude Words.

A Line Is A Fuse That's Lit. The Line Smolders, The Rhyme Explodes— And By A Stanza A City Is Blown To Bits.