Thoughts bounce around my cortex like
toddler on trampoline--unable to land with
balance, posture, calm, or cool.

There is a collection of thoughts that force pen and phone
and napkin into my palms,
call it Selah,
call it possession,
because they are not mine,
if they were, I would not be this satisfied just being
     in their presence.
They are God's, 
     they burn through me
like heat applied to a swelling pride,
like beast born humble with eyes of light
that can see, if for just a second, the ocean in the drop,
the cosmos in the spark.

Sometimes my thoughts splinter and stab my step
like sabotage spoken by a serpent in the silence
or a surround sound setup of static noise stoning my inner child
and suffocate the rhythms that only rise in the stillness, the quiet,

but sometimes,
my spirit whispers the handiwork of a soft-spoken hacker
with a voice like thunder,
synapses sing songs of praise the millisecond before    
the takeover,
the wildfire,     
the Spirit with an opinion
and a purpose sprinkled through space, 
seasoning each new tick like a silent gift to a body stale from sin and stiff
from demons
                            to claim real estate
                                                               for temple matters.

What I'm saying is
I am but a messenger
with skin like ebony & gold cherubims,
a tongue on fire,
and eyes that peek outside the matrix.

Cover Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash