Riding Escaped Lightning

i’ve been advised

my language is too simple.

intelligence requires elevation,

a hoisting out

of the quotidian,

up and up and up

into the erudite air,

where the chosen

intellect each other

with well-bred works like

teleology, praxis, milieu.

i tried to write my way

to that secular heaven,

but the words

waddled onto the page

like an acolyte

with a papyrus scroll

shoved up his ass.

my failed attempt

reminded me that

when i bend to pray

to the angel in

the bell tower,

i don’t massage

the hooded saint

with lexical dexterity.

i get the angel to escape

eternal bliss by riding

escaped lightning

down, down, down

to the ground

with a common tongue.