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This morning, I stand
on the cliff with my bible close to my chest
looking down at the rest of my self-interpreters.
My toes grasp the rough sandpaper edge of the ledge
while my top extremities finger
the moral trigger across my fearful mind-
feeling vulnerable I climbed that tower of babel,
fearing that I could only be saved if I trangressed through
Jacob's ladder on my own,
but alone I only amounted to
the heights of Golgatha,
where the son of this heavenly interpretation
drips blood into my vein pumping
center of creation.
I stand on the cliff, with my bible
close to my chest,
yearning to dive from my unholy self-reliance
into the depths of jagged unadulterated
repetence-
to jump into a pool of broken glass
abraising my skin, feeling the stigmata at the
height of my misdirected progression
into a man-made heaven-
but born from a Brazilian made, I feel the cross,
crossing highways of my bloodlines,
communion cross across the Orixas of my mind
I am no longer confined to a
single road to salvation.
In fact, the syncretism of my religious existence I fear
might have crossed that yellow brick road
to Icubod Crane's headless path
with the palmed way on that Sabbath
that began the Passion before
the crucifixtion,
with route 66 fixing up
vodka with alcoholism and racial chavunism
with that full fall from Heaven
Lucipher's light falling into a fiery path spraling
jealousy in the sky-
or sky high self reliance
down a dark alleyway
where my faith was doused with gasoline in its face.
All paths infinate times
lead my path into a circle,
infinitely confined-
Target practice for my man-made suicide,
where there's only One way out-
so life-dependent decisions may no longer
burn through my mind
after I regurgitate flames of
mortal responsibiliuty through that
gasoline-doused circle of self interpreters
burning a hole through the earth, exposing
my 3-dimentional pathway into
inevitable darkness.
I stand on this cliff with my bible,
close to my chest,
getting nosebleeds, or soul-excretes from the height,
If death is a shadow, then right now, my only spiritual
resting place
seems not in that sky high self-reliance
but in the coolness of God's night.
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