Composting With a Hammer

[execution_sutra]

Christian, consider the wilted rose as a sign
of a dispicable world, a world of rot
and of rotten hills of Golgothan midnight
stinking to apathetic agents. Light
only fuels a biodegrading process, harsh mechanics
of upstart life, a squalid, devouring
misfunction. Even sunlight's false,
a cast shadow of the glory, horrid
glory: perfect unending God, butcher's
hand of plastic in a fleshy
mitt. Think it unabashed: yearn
for death, suffering such desire "to die
and be with my God, my God."

Then I think you must have no objection
to stepping out
and settling this like primates -
you, Christ-clinging nihilist, couch fantasy
in your head, and I accept my roots.
Your daft and soulless unloved mass
has in it the particles of roses,
will become my roses,
in bud
and in bloom
and in beauty.

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From my upcoming chapbook, Observations in Exile.