I only hear my own. I feel restless,
waiting at the gates, like Jesus just woke
up. So visceral, so unpaved, at the
catacombs—not to ask, never to take,
make it natural, given in to
darkness, filled with electricity:
impious at times, I’ll tell a secret,
it’s hell on a holy ride. At humors,
laughing in pain, eyes bubbling up.
Gnawing and gnashing, have they felt
scripture! At the vault-keeper, talking smack,
like Job and made humble. Discern virtue,
making pride music, ready to cross lakes
—walking deserts, this is religion
—feuding with Greece, headed to Egypt
—buried manuscripts. I hear my own. We
feel like strength and pain and alone at it.
I nodded off, a warrior spoke, I
slept at the tracks. Many looking for sex,
we’ve been there, we chase ghosts, omens, spirits
and framed phantoms. I was moving quickly,
didn’t drank it, wasn’t meant to … to
impassion the light, to become a wraith,
I only hear my own. So idyllic,
abiding by pain, at a miracle
in life—over 2-zillion ideals, carved
into his spirit, failing, riding
into darkness. I’ll tell truth, like a
nightmare, wanting to scream out, Fuck it! Feel
it at a séance, collective
effusion, an inrush, to irrigate
trauma. I heard it at the gates. I
vowed to it at the fence. Like fury!
