Warship Worship

Don’t expect from me a rash of prophecy.

I’m just the resurrection and the life

gleaned from sit-comedic interfaith 

recurring dreamscapes gleaned by rote, by gum,

tangent to easterly winds with fumes 

that plague the unearned nests of smoldering 

varmints brazed by internal bracken 

as infectious life forms springing from thought 

to indwelling fear loathe to grasp a spear, 

take down not notation, yet eviscerate

the mean mind beneath contempt but alert 

and keen to dis-redeem those open

to cloaking over priestly habitats

of near strangers intact with potency,

and kind evidence of shapely laugh tracks

de-bleeping body chemistry of sound mind.