The Church at 4th and Christian

I sat among aged old wood today
and cried as whiffs of decay
floated out from among the rafters.
The space was ours for a time,
but last night came the gunshots, the searchlight,
and today the rattling of barracaded doors.

This afternoon, when I climbed the stairs
and sat among the aged old wood after everyone had gone,
I saw -
above our sanctuary, above my head
the roof was caving in.

There among the aged wood I cried for
the gunshots, searchlights, and the sound of your retreating footsteps.
I sat, after everyone had gone,
and cried for the playing space
that had once housed faith.

Eve

I am Jesus.
That's why the TV speaks.
I am Jesus and they are coming.
Crucifixion's on the wind.
I have to tell to tell She tell her she'll see
Aloud and out
~ Free. ~
Outside the air she walks me a journey we took as kids.
We are on the street
~ Siamese Street. ~
but it's different from the eyes of the saved.
I want her saved, to save.
So I tell her Jesus and me and the TV.
I tell her about family ties, the truth connection
she can't see and ask her if its possible
to rape someone with out knowing it.
Nothing is open.
They've all closed doors to look for me.
Beauty and the Beast.
I tell her this, she tells me:

No, it's Christmas Eve.

But there, a truck a man coming from a bar
she grabs my arm but I know it's my turn,
~ You alright, man? You all right? ~
No! It's to save to speak aloud to free -
She takes my elbow
~ No. ~
As he climbs his truck
~ whathfuah? ~
The shakes:
You alright, man? You all right?
Gonna go home, safe? You all right?
Engine starts,
She veers me left,
as I pull out, chase the truck
~ Take it easy. You all right? See you soon. ~
I will.
See him soon.
Jesus saves.
What? Home.
She pours hot milk
I'll pretend
still can't tell what she's part of the plan
evacuation excavation and the crucifixion.
What she don't know or chooses to ignore is
~ Jesus chose to die. ~
so will I
I will die
Tonight
maybe before
maybe already
She waits up to see
but falls asleep before me,
to footsteps pacing.
I listen to her breathing

~Walls.~

***
Four AM

You're still moving, little brother.
Taking the path of your older, mirrored self.
He's still not back completely from the trip he took six months ago.
Disheartened but stronger, bitterely broken,
it will take a lifetime to reconcile with what was lost,
what is now found in drugs.

There is no betrayal worse than that of the self,
a split between two - the uncontrollble highs and lows.
Tonight you told me you are Jesus and that
you are awaiting excavation in a cave.
Then you said the solution lies only in death
and your rebirth and that you were going
to take matters into your own hands
and surrender to the man hunt
and something then about
Beauty and the Beast.

Now I stand
outside your hospital room
staring at the white washed walls,
the carefully tucked corners of the bed,
the center, the hold of all you own now -

Your laceless shoes.

A guard is posted outside your door
because of the telephone you threw
during what I'm sure you would call
the interrogation
~ the intervention~
if you weren't so vacant,
so unexpectedly violent,
if you were the person
from before balance was broken,
you'd be free
to walk to the mess hall,
to walk out of this goddamn hell hole,
to replace the pills for red and green m&ms.
Instead you have lost ten, fifteen, or more pounds.

Mother weeps for the sons she lost this year,
Father has gone silent and vacant in a different way,
and Adam is in a rage at having to relive,
from the outside in, the loss of Eden.

And me? I'm empty, I think.
I don't believe you are Jesus,
or that Jesus saves.
I don't believe in Chistmas, or Eden,
have hated this season
since the nightmares came
on the night before Christmas,
the year I was eight.

Only now I have a reason,
now I see

~Laceless shoes at the foot of your bed.~

what I have been
dreading all these years -

But for you
~ for us ~
on this anniversary
I have shut down and shut up -
For that once was what saved
those who needed saving.

Instead of analyzing dreams,
I mend stockings,
wash well worn dishes,
carefully place snowflakes,
move the North Pole,
drink up the good champagne,
and in this silence accept
my role with a smile
and finally some grace.

11:11

a man sat by
the roadside
in rags and brine,
rocking a bit
whispered mutterings
on his lips.

a soldier recently
back from war
travelled the road
with knapsack in tow.
met the man
of rags and brine
whispered mutterings
upon his lips.

disgusted,
the soldier stopped
screamed over the roar of
war in his head,
"You look and smell
like a pig!"

the man
of rags and brine
took pause, let
silence hang
suspended
between them,
looked up
to the soldier's eyes;

"You look like God."

without pause,
"How can you call me God
when I just called you a pig?"

again the man
took in the soldier
then stood
looked to his eyes,
arched, cracked back
suddenly straight,

"I spend my days with God.
You must spend your days
with someone else."

In eyes.

Me too, my friend,
my Dark Prince.
I left it behind
on accident.
Thought about
what was left for
days but really
found something
in nothing
instead.
Finding solice
in solitude,
you said,
perfectly reminded
me of how easy it is -
Rarely do you let
me finish my thoughts,
instead cut me off - but
To answer your
question;
I'm finding that
watching the back,
tracing touchless
fingertips
along the spine
is better than -
revisioning
ravishings
marked in
translucent light.
I have yet to figure out
how to do as you say,
to hold eye contact,
but that will come
as eye contact
can be more
solidary than
a glance just
past, to the
horizon of
daydreams.
Deepset grey is
there -
just beneath
a purple haze,
waiting to breach
the silence,
and if I were to write
her, and you,
together we'd
make coal
for the
christmas
season.
We all have
something to
hide.
Indeed, my friend,
my Dark Prince.
The trouble is
it shows through
my eyes.

Gone

Sapphire's in mourning.

refuses to speak

of colors consumed -

so instead costumes

in black, absorbs

color, gives in

to deep hues

of hopped gold,

swelling brown,

and organinc greens.

addictions resurface

with the addition

of pink lips to an

already crowded day.

deepset grey in reverse
refuses to let go
writes it out,
these bright muted colors
but never an honest truth.

sapphire hates to read
and so
in a haze of hopped gold,
swelling brown, and organic green
is able to ignore the underlying
cold of deepset grey's
bronze cast iron touch.
will never know, does not care
enough to know the parallels
to already hectic lives.