a
young man with his visions attracted to something crucial or busy ignoring his
situation; rain ponds and city horses our souls with teardrops our love so soapy
and desperate; our watchful sun-breeze so correlated for failures accustomed to
ghetto laws…our religious elders after living this life and many are going to
or have been in rehab; this thing about recovery this new existence this
somewhat judgmental outlook; able to summons deep energizing ghosts or
radiating a particular fire where something shifts and needs its status. Many kids
are bused to church. While becoming something positive. Or somewhat possessed
and fanatical. This holy ingredient, this pure feeling, where it appears as a
faultless element; those abiding rules those moving furniture pieces at settees
and ottomans and spiritual cedar diamonds; to learn about this feature, our Ghetto
Jesus, to speak with such authority—for how does one absorb Jesus with
moderation?
I reminisce
a clove and rift into those trauma years with Christ—that flame that edification
such dedication upon positivity while excavating negative principalities—this
war that cave where goodness was pumped in and severe maladies were charging
and rushing upward—those fiddling mental maggots or mother’s high-wrung rages
into something too clever to decode—this systematic stigmata those pathological
attributes or traits that seemed indicative of ghetto militias; our rooftop
parties or our darkroom fights at something those eyes ingratiated by roughness
and addicts; but Christ this machine this reason to feel goodness this time in
life where one is useful; our days backsliding or our evenings backbiting where
Jesus is watching and we say things like, Lord forgive us; our church
picnics or speaking church with Suzy or feeling something spatial that talked
about holiness; while something in someone worldly congratulates something
standing taller and tacit enough to look like wisdom: this strange conversation
where a mother, and eyes and body melting, suggests this powerful and awkward
praise: You’re a good boy and you deserve the best—while she breaks and
shivers and her nails are dirty: Your daddy would be proud of you, to see
what you have become, but he is in another world right now and you can’t be to
blame and you need not feel sad—because I love you.
It pains
to no small degree when verbal language is contradicting bodily behavior; but
times are dreams and cascading into Suzy where we forget we are dealing with
fallible creatures; our days putting our minds to tests as souls battling this
war and we say things like, Idle time is the devil’s workshop. We cleave
to ideals and ignore inconsistencies while putting our ink to recording scripture;
our deacons facing traumas our pastor in a scandal and our choir losing
strength; But the devil shall test and we shall withstand and we shall not
lose faith; while family has reneged on participation and mother is
somewhere further than before where one whispers: It often gets worse before
it gets better; some type of ancient wisdom or something to prepare a child
for a long road where nightlights might blacken-out and become damp.
Indeed,
we rewrite Jesus making Christ our Savior while trying to erase a part of our
memories; we see doctors and endure lies or get help as becoming quite
intelligent or critical or both; many returned to familiarity rough-housing
their intestines and consuming so much it was hard to unstick such trauma; this
breaking away as survival or so entrenched prison was destiny while many,
misunderstood, laughed and thumbed plenty tacks into coffins; our masculinity our
macho madness or women so tired of stigmas they fail to fight it anymore.
