Hangin’ Over The Devil

the blue devil looks

straight into his eyes…

arch-rival enemy,

more than his match, still

he dribbles the ball, somehow

down by only one

the sweat pouring down

like tears of blood

onto the floor of the gym

and then it clicks

something inside

a switch, flipped

all his anger, channeled

into one final move

to end it all

so he can go home

be done, once and for all

with this demon thing

guarding the way

to that unfading glory

and so he takes off

from the free-throw line

cutting into the air

like a blade in the wind

all of heaven, watching

and cocking back his arm

his right wrist curled

while he palms the ball —

the head of the crane

about to strike —

and it comes in a flash

a thunderous crash

of glass and metal

the shattered backboard

bent steel of the rim

where he floats, hangin’ on

forever, never letting go

over, above his rival

who, looking up…is afraid

scared to holy hell:

the picture, the poster

up on God’s wall

 

The Wine Press

the purple-pink grape

one in a forest of such

bursting at the seams

popping under the weight

giving and releasing

an offering of fruit

in sacred sacrifice

to the inexorable force

of the heaving wood

a machine of a man,

young and ready

his first and final taste

of the fruit of the vine

yet sated with hunger

and filled with a thirst

the press is filled

once more, to the brim

fruit fresh and ripe

the machine, pressing on

crushing the virgin harvest

for that dark enjoyment

red wine, going down

into the pit, where it burns

through the walls and floor —

the acid of demons

called forth by that craving

with which he was born