Vibrations Poem by James Daniel Gabriel

I saw the son of my father as being vivid,
like the omnipotence of the shadow on the sheetrock.

Nothing about this man did he find perfect.
Mon Impotence, Ubiquitous, Holy.
Who speaks like February is August, anyway?

It is dark here beneath a pale and coarse
blanket we call a temple for security reasons.
Heavy filled with feathers,
down...
mockeries and struts.
All for show.

Might as well go back South in a good magazine.
Here in the grave,
down beneath the church gave
by the goose.