I'm the flesh and antithesis of perpendicular bones.
My front door opens to crucifixes lined up in pretty rows.
Welcome to this jungle of human hurricanes,
crooked smiles and solid faces volunteering time and skin
to the Blackbird or the Scarecrow. There are no havens,
only highways stretching as a spotted path of street-lights and sports cars
that drive into horizons and brick walls, accelerating on sidewalks
and letting the tires scream at razors and infidelities.
My welcome mat says "Welcome Home...Again":
a frown plastered on the dusty ground, a rescinding tear
within a masquerade of extinguished dreams.
My mother bleeds wine on the carpet and my father bleeds blue
when he asks for death to take him instead of his apostles:
a prayer from a man who never believed; meanwhile, mother still waits in her sleep
for the crimes of the world to take her first. And they reach for the grapes on the ceiling,
her to quench her thirst, he, to trade in for hope and forgiveness,
for each tear he wasted on something less, for each casket he touches with calloused fingertips
while he bits his lip and chokes back unwarranted apologies.
I'm the flesh and antithesis of them both,
dreaming of nightmares between my sheets, pillows soaked with sweat and tears and make-up,
purple veins emerging with an anger that replaces the tongue upon my teeth.
They see the unpaved roads, futures promised by the breadth of mankind
as I walk out my door onto the path of standing crosses that burn to the ground at my icy glare.
Their street-lights are set by concrete foundations, mine by the light that sits upon them.
My loves were as lost as they, a seething nomad electing to reject faith and hope and happiness
while they each walked away with their eyes planted in the moss below
and with their hearts stapled to their foreheads in a wilted defeat.
I stand as a product of their sins but sit upon the frozen ground
as another worthless intellectual stuffed within crowded classrooms,
programmed to believe in a woeful future and a burdened past,
history that rests within textbooks and headaches and broken beliefs,
and prayers of forgotten liars that spit their rotten teeth upon pavement
when they hold their homes above their heads and question their own slurred speech.
Choice is a game, a crucified path through orchards and field greens that enchant with its' own unhappiness,
like a mid-life crisis applied to dying thoughts or a barefoot step onto the city streets
where dreamers rests on hope: of looking to the sky and saying "There's no place to go but up."