Sam Silva

Judas as the Silver Messiah

What frosty hearts look beyond the dead man
in late April
after a freezing shower
ruins the warmth and the Easter hallelujahs!
...forgone now to whatever ice age comes
with its frozen tears.
As a man
or as a crowd
the movement toward bliss
is shamed and embittered
and was more honestly laid out
in it's cold original poverty
among the beggars and sheep of Bethlehem
among the whores and sinners
at Jerusalem's core.
A man with holes in his pockets
and ashamed to live on
beyond the festival of fools
once the lumpish parade is gone.

In the Lonely Winter of This Strange Nation

The weak flesh longs to fall asleep,
to nod and doze in somnambulant seepage
in a room like a forest, dark and deep and moon
...night sky and screen to worlds
of ideas
that flicker
and dance
in forbidden hallucination.
Yet frozen and mean...this ideation,
for sleep is always denied this weak flesh.
Awake in the ice of tired creation,
in the lonely winter of this strange nation.
Snow and ice...and a winter cresh.

The Voices of Christian Men Out There

What do I think of the world out there?
Of the Christian city's metallic expanse?
It's plastic suburbs
...the weight of our mutual gluttony
and likewise lust
in this worldly dance?
I do little...much less too much wrong.
I harbor a song
and try to present my thoughts
like shavings from a wooden statuette!
And...the voices of Christian men
view so easily the demonic
...see the devil in everything
including me.
So that a day like Christmas or Easter come
or in some remarkable evening solitude
and I try
within my mind, to posit a simple prayer.
They interrupt my thoughts
...they call with wild and blasphemous insult
'til such meditation leads to regret.
Not even Heaven and faithful bliss
....but a simple prayer.
They deny me this
...the voices of Christian men out there....

Sam Silva © 2008