I buried him
in my blood
and there he runs,
through my heart
and brain.

Each day is a memory
of his forgetting
the inconvenient,
railing at the dead,
driving dogs to slink
from his hand.

Prophetic utterances rise
as blisters on my fingertips,
his rage a swirling vertigo
behind my eyes.

I know him chapter
and verse, the King James
of every small town
pentecostal church
within two hundred miles,
a Jeremiad scribbled
in a thousand spiral
notebooks, a curse
against all
who disbelieved him.

Time and space
bent to his view,
curved around
his planetary ego.

He courses through me,
flowering in mistrust
of all I know and see,
yet I scribble crooked lines
when I would keep silent
and let the visions pass.