Theodore
wore out the door
to the church

red faced
in his blue suit

and though his gun
was his Bible
it was really his mouth
of marbles

he memorized
his theology

a lion into a lamb
then into a man

for all men

but he could not
remember

the fragmented bones
the iron whip

and the blo*d
that spotted

the dusty trail
of ideas

and he never died
on a cross

so how could he carry
one in his soul

Theodore
a preacher now

carrying no burden
but his own

paying the rent
by giving out

for ten percent
for a sacrifice

of time

the ragged edge
tickets

of destiny

These all sound a bit cynical to me.

I heard once that 'if a genius can't change the world....he might as well critique it'.

Not to insult, but all I get is negative vibes off these.

I appreciate your comments. I feel true criticism is as good and more beneficial to art as (whatever). Ironically, my first cousin, who was a evangelist, and now is a head pastor of a church, was some kind of reverse inspiration for this poem. His name is Timothy Z.,about 30 years old. Who I feel, or is in my opinion, one of the most genuine souls I know. I actually feel my soul dance when he speaks. So thank you for the wound that will heal. I am now reflecting in a part of my soul, that I seem to not acknowledge. DUDE, you are wise! Give me a heads up when you read this,please.

jimmy

I see I hear I believe