my buddha prayer

the clouds are dead.

jesus is sleeping.

my kisses miss
the lips of buddha.

the exploited garden,
grows superstitions,
a bloodless grace.

the well is bitter
in bethlehem,

my sympathy
for the lamb
is bloated in ink.
i goose step
to prayers
in my breath.

i am saved,
by twisting incense,
inside my lungs.

main street beckons

be still my gypsy soul.

my desire to bleed,
is my holy sacrament
for unturned dirt.
i am a farmer
of every filthy word.

the sinner is happy.

the scars are art,
and a wellborn melody,
to the deaf and the blind.

amen, amen.

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