It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea
drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.
Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback
but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.
I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;
He is creating.
He swims like a whale,
through life,
inflated,
blubbered up from pomposity.
He is all.
He creates territory
and torture.
I am followed.
To the outskirts, I dream –
puffed up on Winter
drugs, countered
by a pulse
that refuses to let go.
All the while, He is made,
poaching my land,
harvesting my seed….
and then they say it’s HIS plan,
so HE takes it all from ME?….
The season will change again,
as seasons often do,
and I will settle firm
inside the Earth,
where He will never follow.
Blue brick stone eyes,
like four leaves, I am in luck.
Liquid doesn’t drip from rock.
Not all skin is the same.
Some grow into cat-o-nine tail,
but you…
you douse poison like a God.
I am witness,
without religion,
without faith,
without hope,
out of the blue,
brick stone eyes
came to me
an old idea –
a different skin
growing on me.
Oh, dear Satan, your delicious
merchandise finds me
tender.
I am a raw sunflower gasping for
clean air, for rare light
to open my thin arms
and feed my beginning.
I could be a generous gift,
a miracle fragrance in the breeze
of a season,
but I was stomped deep
in the Earth, fed on by worms
before I knew how to dream.
When dreams slipped in to my feeble
stem, they were
manipulated, filling my roots with
poison.
Now, I sleep with deadly seeds
growing in my brain, too weak to survive
cold seasons,
surrendering to dark demons, until
spring brings back
the warm light of hope.
Sunlight spills out over the sky
and I watch the women dance,
strings from Heaven attached to each limb,
red lips painted with French curls,
I love them so much.
I loathe them so much.
They lift off the ground with majestic beauty,
gliding from toe to toe.
They seem to sleep on clouds,
pretty ballerinas that Pas
around town.
In the library, they seat quiet children
who are stainless and educated from
high value,
they swim in holy water with
moulded figures sticking out and I drool
along with the men,
and I love them so much.
Oh! I loathe them so much.
They fall like pink snowflakes,
kissed with Latter Day sprinkles,
the daughters of God who walk on Earth
next to me, searching for my palms,
serving me with the grace that Sunday could bring
but I will not listen.
I cannot.
My ears have been cut from my head by
Van Gogh’s paint strokes,
Mozart is pounding his fingers against my
chest in C-Minor, and
all of the words that have ever been written
by limbless men
and lipless women
sing as a group of cellos,
rooted deep in my naval,
where I began.
I’ve been digging through past lives for
months, searching
for fingerprints
in five feet, eleven inches of
deceit dust covering everything
I know! How many times did he shed his skin
back here? Dead parasites are proof!
He was on the roof when it caved.
Climbed over four hundred days
with water and
a bible.
He left spoons and mattress burns below him,
tribe familiars blossomed following his climb,
extending gratitude,
tribute!
And he climbed, praising God, until he reached
Grace,
humble resiliency…
We sang!
We cried and we sang!
We wrapped our hugs in packages with golden bows,
throwing them to a skeptical world! We danced, twirled
through moon phases, a
fantastic celebration!
Then, a sharp raucous!
Brusque thunder crushing eardrums!
Blood poured from our ears
as the noise devastated. Bible pages
fell like confetti over
our joy; a tearful,
thick pollution!
We cried!
We fell and we cried!
We wrapped our memories in boxes with golden locks,
sealing them, our treasures. Silently, we
remembered, our Requiem,
a tribute!
All we know is that he climbed,
and that underneath five feet, eleven
inches of his dust, it is
in God that we place our
rusted
trust.
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