a poem a day for a year #120

my title is minister of the church of the wounded bird
it's funny though
because I am more messed up than any of the flock
I am just good at altar calls
at charisma hip shake
at wild eye wonder
at using all of the words that make you want to come with me
make you want to belong
to a congregation
to a movement
where you can shrug your shoulders
stare into the sun
sing the hymn of the misfits
hold beer bottles by the neck with two fingers
walk away from good things
run wild towards the bad
kiss everyone
fist fight
Saturday night
I will hold you
I will bring you in
I will lick your wounds