Where is the Messiah?

Are you there God?

It’s me, your pariah.


I’ve become something of a liar,

a mystifier, a cad, a fraud:

Where is the Messiah?


To deliver from brimstone and fire?

Against the one wielding the iron rod?

It’s me your pariah,


son of the dawn, prince of the nebula

the gates of Judecca have thawed.

Where is the Messiah?


I’ll take silver, like Judas and Delilah

their feet are swift; to shed blood.  

It's me, your pariah.


Your ***** for hire,

Oh, how I await the flood.

Where is the Messiah?

It’s me your pariah.

the timber of my wolf voice
scares me

i cannot back it up yet
i keep howling

i hear just words from lips
thought to be wise

my own voice included
in the nothing

what came before now
is imaginary

i know i am just here
i howl

Thy lips like golden pages of a sacred book are shining.
Thou art resplendent in gold;
I am shy in waves of pink.
Soften my sweet sap, soften my love for thee and let it be planted like a seed in the grounds.
With thy light may thou water my heart.
For thee I die, for thee I die.

this whole world is like a pit
by your side, i'll find a way

prosperin' in times of sadness
people are loaded with madness
questions in their eyes, a quest
by your side, i'll be blessed

lord, i wanna be good, so good
lord, i wanna die in the hood
baby, take a trip with me, soul dealin'
we were sick, now got feelings of healin'

don't get me wrong, don't tell it everybody
yet i'm not flawless, a human being, a body
lord, i wanna be good, so good
lord, i wanna die in the hood

lead me through the valley of my fear
lead me through the valley of my tears
o lord, holy almighty, you sent me milly
do i deserve her? am i worthy?

ya know me, a friend of forties, a slowie
fan of bowie, jeezy, straight up deezy
i don't respect the "i", but my woman
o lord, holy almighty, you sent me milly

the beginning of a journey, the winning
just the beginning, i'll be fightin' waterfalls
all in all, i'll crush the chinese wall to be
with you girl, not my new girl, but my true girl

funky like a whirlwind, my head is spinning
people waitin: what about him, ain't no sinnin'??
don't have to to do that, cause i am tru dat, so in it
my head is spinnin', lord i wanna be good

i wanna live and die in the hood, maybe in the woods
you sent me milly, this is not to be misunderstood
embers in her eyes, and a nice-hearted smile
lord, do i deserve her? am i worthy?

ya know me, a friend of forties, a blowie
o lord, holy almighty, please bless us...

Recreate... Re-create.

She told me that distraction is an art from vile thoughts, the ones that circle 'round, drag me down into the ***.

Recreate... Re-create.

Not distraction from the sort of thing that truly needs attention, but getting back to who I am, a spiritual ascension.

Place those wings upon my back, we all are holy creatures; show me what's inside your soul, the finest of all features.

If your demons drag you down, chain you up, and circle 'round,
Pull yourself up out the cauldron, fight and stand your ground.

'Cause in addition to holy talks is something that has power,
Re-create by recreating, and bloom your long lost inner flower.

Black rosary beads
Holy prayers uttered to God
Penance for my sins

i've always written poetry
with the passion of a preacher to sermon.
i experience for literature feelings
which i imagine others to offer religion.

i've never been spiritual.
full stop.
my cynicism denies me wonders -
tired tale, sure, true as any other,

but poetry evokes the holy ghost
a being more skillful, more elegant,
setting my mind's eye alight with
saintly delusions of grandeur

it curls from my pen, bleeding fire into my notebook
if there is Elysium, it is in
the private Eden created between
my mind and my notebook.

if there is peace, it is in libraries,
eyes poring over words pouring over
life, utterly human life, told in a
way that is raw and violent and righteous,
connecting one's private introspections to words.

if religion has a purpose,
a redeeming quality, it is
community, connection, consistency.
God Is Always and Always Has Been and Always Will Be.

the great human collective,
the experience of poetry, of life,
the art of internal monologue,
it persists. it persists.

no, i am not spiritual -
it does a disservice to us.
it unjustly ignores the
holy human hand in our history

time is a chronicle of the messy
affairs of human choice and experience .
it seems unfair to me,
to pin all the blame on a

convenient
divine
deux ex machina
slash
scapegoat.

don't give the big guy all the credit!
the exhausted masses had a hand too!
take some responsibility for
humanity's divine man-made persistence!

so, yes, i experience poetry
with the rapturous fascination
as sinner to saint -
yet there is no sin in poetry.

by nature it is a
narcissist's and hedonist's pass time.
so there is only wonder
and childlike curiosity,
and the slightest sliver of hope to move forward,
which, really,
what else is religion good for anyways?