Van Gogh’s mad ear enflamed a field
of purple irises—marring the face of
a sleeping homeless man. Artists render
people like pastels & watercolors.
The wounded gather shopping carts & talk
about Jesus, their smiles resemble burn
scars. They tape magazine clippings
to bedroom mirrors & blow cigarette smoke
into perfect images, hoping to see a heartbeat.
Liars parse sermons like ravens, then genuflect
at driftwood crosses & line their egos
with Cardinal feathers—change sangria
into green tea. Would that I were sickle
& whetstone—a reaper of men, or palette
& canvas—the turned cheek of Christ.
