Month: June 2018

a poem for the evening sun

I believe in God the Father Almighty, in false things and delusions; the tap water running to drown out the sound of the shivers at seven. In the quiet moments and the bare body on the camera or the lost prophet in the home and altar. Reciting His name again and again will absolve this household of sin, we believed.   I believe in emptiness, in ajar mouth and rewired brains. Tap dancing on the throe of loneliness and kicking bags over fences; the presence of smokescreen or radiation in June evenings–the same infallible empty. Like buckled belts and car crash memoir, weighing life for small games and chances and the redundancy of trying.   I believe in belief, in healing towards the dead. The picket fence and the turn towards atheism, boys equating running and late nights to freedom for the drone of the system to repeat itself again. Where momentarily my verse becomes a soldier, the escape or done vow to something again–the summer solstice and the painted moon towards revival of mankind and him alone.   I believe in myself, in my body cleansed with the stomach pumped and the ebbing of a thousand ancestors before me as my mouth seeps in the alcohol with the bowels emptied in a continuous war waged with the self. Remember killing the crevice so as not to harm the others, pre-desecrating my funeral for twig, bark, and journals– decapitating man with the sleight of hand.   I believe in the hold of wrist, the flicker of light for prejudice to uphold warmth beyond the bruises. Repentance amidst the four time bathroom mirror, the seat the only altar I bow towards at eighteen. In accordance with middle school, the repetition of my life and the blood coursing through your eyes the lock and sole measure of all my mortality left. I hear the whisper of a voice and realize it was never mine.   I believe in your sound, in renewal and rejuvenation. In cleansing and false Bible stories and reinvention of all prophets and ring bearers–in apocalyptic nows and self-fulfilling suicides. In the tomorrow or midnight sun, in the remnants of what is good and what is left in a world doomed before we had even been born in it–in time we never asked for. In search of the gaps, where I mind memory and equivocate belief with a prayer.