no good

the nerve
of you,
the way
you point
a finger,
so near
my face
slicing
my nose
to spite
my place,
the whole time
telling me,
the rest,
(as if
there were
that many)
were nothing
more than
bible-thumping
rednecks,
nordic-bred,
or thick-necked
german guys,
cowboy-hatted
good old dudes,
catholic boys
next door,
who said
they played
the drums,
and
all of them,
by your
estimation
and degradation,
carrying
their baggage,
the "good book"
in one hand,
pure-intentioned,
but
their penis
held far higher
in the other
slight of hand,
the space
between
my thighs
the only
part of me 
they possibly
could want,
no interest
whatsoever,
you tell me,
refashioning
the facts,
to fit
your designs,
in the further
parts of me
that i refuse
to let
just anyone
see...
... and
the nerve
in you
to say
all of this,
and more,
you,
a proverbial
seasoned warrior,
the war club,
in your hand,
a member
just like
the others,
too few,
i think,
but now,
too many, 
all things
up for
consideration,
and while you
hold no book,
clinging to
the earth,
a poet,
living his poetry,
your religion
is no better,
your interests
no deeper,
and far
less pure
than those
before you,
lying as
you do
between
my knees,
this place
you call
home in,
one breath,
but trash
while exhaling,
your way
supposedly
better
than there's
and
i can't
forgive myself
for this.

 

"here's the church, here's the steeple, open the door and see all the people."