*This poem appears in Alexandra Martinez's novel Wretched Piece of Flesh, which can be purchased HERE

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Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Lord

After a Jonathan Edwards sermon, 1741

The individual no longer believes in magic
Only scientific fact holds any sway.
The herd turns up its nose at evolution,
But happily follows a burning bush.
Our new Bush, a tumbleweed set aflame.
The Lord is the Shepard, he will keep
Those who would have him by their breast and
With their faith, restore him to his white kingdom.
His might is vast, for it comes from the green
Draught of faith, from which he drinks deeply.
He, in his verse, has threatened vengeance
On the wicked, unbelieving Muslims.
His foot shall slide in due time,
Dealing punishment and destruction.
There is nothing that may stop him,
Since the Towers of Babel fell.
All the influence of Mount Olympus
Has died, the cold iron bell has rung
Lo, the Lord cannot only cast men into Hell,
But he may do so easily. Bathe the lord in your faith
As does his flock, and to him you shall be evergreen
Otherwise you deserve to be cast into Hell.
Justice calls aloud for an infinite punishment.
Thus are we led by the Lord’s will, and not our own.
We are born unto our ruin. To him,
The poor and faithless are no better than The Lord’s
Transgressors, and they are subject to the same
Wrath and anger dealt upon the dark and hellbound.
We flatter ourselves that we may escape
From the flames of Hell. But we cannot move
Without his word. The Lord secretly listens to
All we say, and sees all we do. The wrath
Of the Lord hangs even over this congregation.
Let everyone fly out of Sodom, haste for your life.
And do not look behind you, lest you be consumed.

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Cheaters

This is a Haiku
Shit, only six syllables
Hope no one noticed

Advancing through archetypes,
how quickly we evolve from bard into cynic.
Losing readers to a poorly named poem.
Don’t mistake my meanderings.
I don’t break rules,
I make them as I go

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Conversations with Michelle

When did you stop crying?
Rape and abuse causing your
Body to cry snake streams of sweat.
Can a beast like you know tears?
Waterfalls of complacency for
this life, this pen, this Hell.

When pain encompasses the world
Do you find pleasure from agony’s
Lesser variations? You wade in your
Waste, animal atrophy setting in, his
Ash smoldering on your ass as he enters.
The door’s breaking let you walk.

Released from the sewage to find
the grass, first touch, devil’s feet.
They delivered you, introduced you
To that free sky, and to your death.
Your captor and Master’s final call
To you, ‘My horse, my right.’

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For Levi

I can’t think clearly anymore
But that’s fine, you don’t need
My thoughts, I follow, do not lead
I am your consumer, your whore

And you know what buttons to push
Each person is a demographic, right?
All of those rebels who attempt to fight
Have a rebel program to make them hush

Ten years ago, it seemed that we couldn’t
Control people as we do now,
Selling products with lifestyles and a face
When will we cross that line we shouldn’t,
When we run dream ads in your pillow
Awake screaming Dentam’s Dentifrice

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The Smell of Agriculture

I went for a visit to a Midwest town.
The town could be described, at best, as brief.
But there were people there, friendly.
A fat child and an Indian boy greeted me.
On the edge of town, they sat on the porch
Of a condemned house, framed by white condos
I asked if they would escort me to the gas station.
They said they’d like to, but the Indian boy’s
Ankle had been crushed by a boy with a rock
Earlier in the week, and they were stranded.
I did get directions and found it from there.
Wherever I walked, my nostrils were attacked
By the smell of agriculture, the smell of burning.

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