A Gospel With Hands Raised

Tue, 06/28/2016 - 00:45 -- m.n.i.w

On days when sunsets remind me of my future,
I become a raft at sea, adrift
with a bottle in hand. Anatomically assail, I crack open bottles like fortune cookies
& instead, let the poison consume me until I'm hollow. My sole
goal is to drink until my fortune appears
at the bottom of empty bottles. Like my soul,
empty & unpromising. I continue this riddling cycle
like a biblical addict. This ceiling is Lord, these walls are omniscient mouths,
these mirrors are transparent eyes. Revealing in many ways,
only revealing my ugly ways. My aspirations are lit cigarettes, cancerous & burning.
I inhale the premonitions of ash until my lungs are pitch black balloons
& I release them into the air. Hoping their ascension exceed limits & fail to become origami
to the pressure, the way my brittle bones already have. I am only an origami bird,
more paper like human. This foggy malice clouding potential serenity is embedded
to my mind's grave. In tombstones, carved & signed with the initials W. O. E. I was born
into the smog of my fate. A hospital of dreams with foreshadowed demise. A future
as hazy as my reflection, I see change the way Stevie Wonder sees light.
So I become music to deaf ears, a feather in the wind, hoping
to find a nest of hope or a bird's wing to reveal what's beyond the clouds. My environment is helices
of mutiny and violence & intolerable pain in my cells. My bloodstream resembles
the many puddles of blood that stain the concrete. Thick and slick like an oil spill
spilled throughout my body. It trickles like river waters. A plastered plague
of dead weight, souls lost. A "black" plague. It's poisonous,
infecting every organ
in me like an out of tune key. It's sensible, venom has become that unforgettable song
& injection, a sixth sense. I keep close ones in a home in my heart called love, & I'm an arsonist. I am that star
turned black hole. I am that ignited candle burned far too long. I am the red magic. All must feel
the burning sensation of my love's plight. An unspoken promise.
I was born in love with the hue of blue, but it's become my mood's frequency
& a musical genre. & ever since it's been a journey through muddy waters. Red
is the true color of my destiny. I see red pavements more than I see blue skies.
& the red & blue lights flashing in rhythm of a flailing heart
promises ceaselessness. A reminder of the anguish & defeat, the blue lyrics
to that ingrained song. The same song sung by the bruised & battered spirits of my ancestors. Broken,
gracious horses in a stable shackled to the weight of indistinct memories & false hope. Wading
& waiting. I raise both hands to the sun to capture its light. A final attempt for flight,
a sudden enlightenment, but they soon become a plea, a gesture of my surrender, & the death of perseverance.
I've fought, I've been beaten, & I've succumbed to my shadow. I crumble
to all the things that eclipse my sun & bleaches my pride. Whitewashed,
the world has both blackened & tried to bleach my skin.
But still, a bird's sway amidst the wind is forbidden. The wings of a swan must be chained
to prevent any possibility of flight. Trap bodies in a cage & make it hunting season.
Second amendment to seconds amended in seconds a man dead & the system amens it. The hatred
embedded in triggers erupt to scorch flesh & pardon a soul from its golden armor. A gang of pirates,
pirating cultures & souls. When fate meets reality & its expectations,
not much can persuade the sun that my heart is worth light,
except for maybe the flash synonymous with the bang
of when bullets erupt. As grains
of trickling sand become miniscule & the product of fear whispers the dimensions of a casket,
diction overrides it with the essence of pearly gates. As the box of my decay slowly opens, these words
become an orchestra with violins of revival & clarinets of rejuvenation. The creation
that will outlive the creator & give breath to those that follow. The cure for time's wrath,
a poetic etiquette to exercise counterclockwise motions. The CPR to yesterday. That tick
of a bullet with the desire to suck the oxygen from my lungs suddenly pauses
& retracts back into the barrel. A masquerade of still bodies dancing becomes the trigger
& the trigger guard. The hammer recedes like a bullet's abortion. & aimed sights
become the hazy depiction of what my future held. My arms
once held & raised in defeat become wings. Shackles
become a dismantled cocoon, mere words defy gravitational oppression, diminishes cage doors,
& my soul inclines like a fresh butterfly beyond constitutes & constituents. These words
grant the past presence & open closed caskets, giving unspoken victims voices. I hear them all
& they are biblical. They are the scriptures to eternity bestowed by my God. I note them down
into rhythm & alignment. Aligned along with the voice claimed conscience,
along with the voices claimed love & beautiful & angel & dove. These voices avalanche
on a page & speak the language of music with a melodic accent. Allowing them to sing
with their tombstones as a stage. & I write the lyrics.
They are gospels to a heaven solely known as poetry.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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