EARLY SUNDAY MORNING LISTENING TO MY HEAD

It's Sunday again,
a mouth filled with pain,
a tongue that has tasted rain & sunshine;
pills, father, pills filled with quiet.

In my room,
a brothel filled with shadows of bygones,
a seismic event occurs in my throat
& I hear all the gods speak,
a pantheon of dissonance.

Oh father, let my people come to thee.
By people, I mean every version of me
I have buried in my fists.

I mean I have killed to survive this morning.
I mean what part of me have I not devoured
to keep this body moving,
to keep the windows clear?

It's Sunday again
& a talking drum has my feet
bound to an ancient path.

I look for the grooves
where my body first moved
of its own accord & found overgrown
tire tracks.

This is how victims escape
out of their own stories.
This is how much fever
my body has witnessed.

You will say it must be love.
I will laugh & swallow my drugs
& let the shadows come;
I have left my body at home
on the chair, before the phone.

Let them come.
Only a call & heaven itself will hear my song
& every angel in my head will have no choice
but to chant their alleluia.
Amin.

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