Anti-Psalm queer words from the mouth’s Deep South

Hallelujah for the still water’s furious roar

pounding me like god into crumbs.  


In the beginning it was want, touch, the touch of want,

being transgressed by the dangerously different,


a film noir cartoon of my body’s insurrection 

watching me storm through the moral checkpoint


where desire stripped down is a birdcage of beaks—   

minus the shimmer of ebony wings intent on escape.


It was me who helped dirty things fly,

pigeons praying on the bed of my body


 a translucent fan of origami skin thrashing heaven,

screeching listen to me, listen to hands that don’t give a damn  


in a stranger’s pants at 2:00 AM. Hands become bowl     

beneath the body of Christ in a small southern church     


where folded palms never could hold my attention.  

Being a member of only one body, one sanctified torso


to enter and exit, my tongue found a reason to not

swallow itself as punishment for such incorrectness,


unleashing words like a gentle pit bull raised on

sweet meat of sameness. Unlike David


no harp taught my hands the harmony

of sling and song. Unlike David it wasn’t Goliath 


who fed me the fear of men. I was safe, sleeping there,  

a conqueror’s seed in my mouth.

Daniel Edward Moore’s poems have been published in journals such as: The Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Assaracus Review, Columbia Journal, American Literary Review, Mid-American Review and others.He lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His recent book, “Confessions Of A Pentecostal Buddhist," can be found on Amazon. His work has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Visit Daniel at