Poetry from James Whitehead

Pierced Flesh

you believe you believe in a piece of pierced flesh pinned

to the carpenter’s own carpentry; you believe you believe in sin’s

redemption, & for all eternity; you believe you believe in Him.

where hide those females, lovers of life, that would live just, to wash his feet?

in your land, your state, your neighborhood, or on your streets,

woman treads heavily; the source of life loosed, then she bleeds;

there are no feet to wash; once day’s focus grows nightly dim,

the killer, thief, rapist, man in the identification line, “him,”

he takes her, throws her, hits her, kicks her, then chews on her seed

as easily as if she were fruit; what follows this, you hypocrites call “life;”

what does follow in her life, which is life, & which is already of us,

unlike unformed abstract forces eventually born of evil or good via the uterus,

is the gambling of her life in a game played out by the Law, Death, in Strife;

what follows being a victim in her life, is being the victim again;

a woman is raped raped raped; while male judges preside over trials,

she feels every ounce of her entire being resisting that – that – that thing

that philosophers lump alongside prophets when they speak of “man” & Being

loses all its Nobility, Beauty & Grace to Violence & Pain;

& the judges – Souter, rehnquist, scalia, et cetera, consider the gains

brought on by their beliefs in “life” & consider this abstract & smile.

& while the wrong that call themselves the right celebrate, a real, human, woman is

walking down an alley-way towards the only help that she can afford, or knows;

it could be she goes to see a hack who takes her back to a dirt-hole in provo,

where the man doesn’t care to wash his hands, being no judge, no pilate;

could be a room full of coat hangers in indy, cincy, baton rouge or dallas;

but with no money, doctor, or help, that violence in her belly is all that matters;

all that matters is that IT invaded her; that she did not want IT to happen; she hates IT.


IT is sin; & she is going to get rid of it.


She is going down that alley-way so she can die for the sins of another.


She dies.  Pierced flesh.  Believe in it.

One thought on “Poetry from James Whitehead

  1. Humanity fails when sexuality on women done crucially at random. Burdened on sins. Wonderful focus on torture to that woman, reflecting a fruitless life!

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