It is possible to enter Hell;
walk all the way through
to the end of the sulphur path
and out the other side into the light of day.
But you will never be the same person
that you used to know and be.
Your shadow will be a stranger.
Your skin will carry the hint of sulphur,
Your hair will seem slightly singed.
You will never recognize your face in a mirror.
But you will hold each and every day to your heart
as a gift, and you will know compassion for the wounded.
The Beginning:
A forgiven memory is still a memory.
Words are gone,
existing no longer,
while my heart searches for you
in the cold wind.
You are gone, my Lord;
the air breathes silence,
while the Eagle of your guidance
has flown to another land,
no longer flying to lead me.
The trees whisper secret songs,
speaking only of some tomorrow.
Autumn is in their branches
without spring’s promise.
Where are words of comfort?
Where is laughter to dry my tears?
My fate is sung by trees that whisper,
"Winter is here."
Sinking into non-thinking arms,
panting passions,
lonely one nighters,
crying jags in bars,
searching astrology and stars,
drinking white lighting from mason jars.
The river called continually.
The dark shadow that followed mine
beckoned softly.
High on a hill
overlooking the river
behind a tall thick brick wall;
a flat,
clanging,
uninviting,
demanding
bell
begins to clack
a call to prayer.
Past the wall
past the hill
past the valley and the river
past the alms and the giver
outside the reach
of bent knees,
cloistered feet,
the city churns a drowning beat
of sirens,
tandem trucks,
fuckin’ broads on 2nd Street,
pimps pullin’ bucks,
bag men,
basket ladies,
alley cats and rats,
do their daily search
for fresh and easy meat.
In the city house
without a bell
behind another wall,
she lay strangled
in the August heat,
and reeked,
while maggots roamed
her nose and eyes.
She believed his lies.
Hungry for his excellent love
she died.
No one heard her cries.
I wail a Bedouin’s cry
sounded high above the city.
I do not weep the hankie tears
of gentile Southern Ladies.
I shriek and jerk and beat my fist
on air and sky and breast.
I anthem from my gut
the animal death dirge of the earth.
I yell primal obscenities toward God and Thor
who have torn my heart from me.
With strong hands they have ground
a poultice of my bones.
I lie in the dust of it.
I will not heal.
My eyes tire.
My face swells,
and still I yell
assaulting Hell.
I curse the birth
that bequeathed to you
the breath of death.
Summer fog
misting up from the ground,
steaming up side down.
Crazy rain without drops.
Slowly,
I sweat my way through the steam,
turning my soul back green.
Hard to walk through the door
into that life once more.
The isle was long and slanted,
dividing polished walnut pews
hiding velvet covered
wine colored kneeling rails
where my knees failed.
The miserable tale was wailed to the air.
Limp words stumbled and fell
onto the marble stair
landing at the foot
of the heavy carved cross.
Unable to coherently define loss,
I walked away
still looking for Golgotha.
The wafer passed,
symbol of unleavened manna
flat bread
Messiah’s body,
not dead,
nourishment,
healing.
It was thin and tasteless,
I took two.
The wine passed,
closer to my lips
the cup tipped its way toward me,
filled with a young man’s blood,
Messiah’s blood,
to ward off death,
magic breath
flowing life.
It was flat and sugar sweet.
I inhaled
gulping in the transfusion.
Kneeling still,
lost in my mind search
waiting for the wounded hand
to touch my cold and torn soul
struggling to hear His voice whisper,
"Rise, and go."
I stand in your presence for a moment
and cling to your shoulder
with my head on your breast.
I feel myself falling to your feet.
All strength has left me.
Unable to move,
I bid you please leave me.
"Go to others," I cry.
"It is enough.
I have held you, My Lord."
You kneel down beside me.
Still I protest as you lift me
placing my head on your chest.
And there in the quiet repose of lovers,
the times of my lives pass by.
I hear you say,
"Rise."
I shall live forever
in the joy of that moment.
Forgiven and Amen.
Reacting to injustices to yourself
will create a heart filled with
malace, mayhem, and murder.
Thoughts will eat you alive
from deep in your gut
clean up to your eye balls.
Healing is possible
but it comes slow and hard.
Retaliation and retribution
are boulders on the soul's road
to rehabilitation.