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Sermon
Poets are gods or god-like-liars, or liars-like-God, & me & my poems platonically drink from the same flask as God, but only sometimes— I almost transgress. I’m all tongues. Can’t commit to sinner or saint, which makes me a sinner. If I’m not holy, I’ll play at taking up my father’s mantle accidentally, preaching from a pulpit anointed with shame, consecrated in concern—I am named Sarah, not for the woman, but for her post-doubt devotion. I am a devotional unto myself, finally sacrificing silence for righteous anger—read this as table-flipping—all the money changers’ coins raining onto stones at my feet. All hail the princess of reverent blasphemy— refusal to submit is my crown of thorns. I’m sorry not sorry to defile this sanctuary with my unclean methods & symbology, but I’m no false prophet, no angel-of-light masquerade here to bring about an end-time fantasy— I am a terrible atheist, but I am a great god. I get my nourishment where I can, feed the five thousand with scrap metal melted down from crosses & altars & all the other idols men built in place of poetry in place of me— I am the author of my own salvation— see me move the mountains, see me edit myself into holy books, & proofread the world until you see that it is still bad— I am a god because this is how I keep myself— give me formless & void, not all this wreckage to re-create.