Grinding with Jehovah

Brown sweat on my fingerprints,
I wipe acoustics’s brow again with
a rag from the stranger's Levi jeans.
It's stained with holy water
and blotches the souls we've bled
profuse on the wooden stage.
Blending our palms together, we're
shoeless, faceless, solid as soil and
shifting cells between our bodies,
sifting souls and sands of time.

Coal mounds in the deep cavities of
my chest, throbbing in time as we
slip calluses against each other, grinding
the scars of our labors rather than the
hipbones that fever to fuse under salty skin.
Even our sins are holy, for they are
blessed in saliva and sweat and whatever
reality's pores cry into nights like these,
where Jesus and sex intertwine.

Hmm...interesting subject. As with a lot of your work, some of it's too cryptic for me, but the images and rhythm were, as usual, well done.

Brown sweat on my fingerprints,
I wipe acoustics’s brow again with
a rag from the stranger's Levi jeans.

Here is an example of a metaphor I don't understand. "I wipe acoustic's brow", is that just a twisted way of talking about being caught up in the music, the dance, a crowded room? Not only are you wiping this figurative brow, it's with a rag from a stranger's clothing. It's just too much for three lines. I mean, it's an...interesting...image, but all it's accomplished here is tone; I didn't see what it was trying to say, if anything other than dance-music-crowded room.

It's stained with holy water
and blotches the souls we've bled
profuse on the wooden stage.

Bled profusely, perhaps? The structure there confused me. I really like that idea of being stained with holy water, though.

shifting cells between out bodies

I'm guessing you meant to say "our" bodies, with an r.

Coal mounds in the deep cavities of
my chest, throbbing in time as we
slip calluses against each other, grinding
the scars of our labors rather than the
hipbones that fever to fuse under salty skin.

Very descriptive; I could really visualize this and loved the diction. The only problem is that the sentence is a bit long, drawn-out, even for this poem. I think it's everything from "grinding" on, like it's so much to get out, uh-oh the sentence is finishing, hurry. Perhaps a comma after labors, for somewhat of a pause.

Even our sins are holy, for they are
blessed in salvia and sweat and whatever
reality's pores cry into nights like these,
where Jesus and sex intertwine.

Nice finish, but the last line seemed a bit...corny? Not really sure, it just seemed a little...can't find a word. I say cut it, leave the end at "nights like these."
I'm assuming "salvia" is "saliva".

My only large concern is that you might be overdoing it a little. The images are great, the metaphors, yes, but you might be going a bit too in depth. Rather than letting the reader sample these words like fine wine, you might be drowning him or her in them. Perhaps this is just me being slightly delirious from cold medicine, but I felt as though there's too much crammed in here.

Edgy and enjoyable; good work.
Colleen