Monday, December 28, 2009

Neon Monasteries

The tunnels and inlets of the city run water like a priest sweeping a monastery. I pry on my weakness and walk the back alleys of this city, constantly watching my back, shadows dart across the buildings as if I’m too weak to go to confession. Your words I let out with tiny breaths and slowly walk into electric light and then once more into heavy darkness. In the dinners and poorhouses where the empty make beds out of hunger and eat thin, weight the city in late night. Town Lights and low air still the streets in faded yellow where the doors open to let in thieves. With a heavy wool coat I walk the collar turned up; hands in pockets; I look from left to right and hold tight in my hand a small cross made out of wood. My ears read these pages and write what is forgotten in the book of life my cross stays warm in my hand. Windows above the under belly of concrete sidewalks hold their eyes closed blinking to release red heat to glow through the black ink. I hear the basement call like crows in the empty skies of a white sheet of paper; I hear the calling of men who have gone mad through strange liquors running down the night streets arms waving as if ready to take flight. The night by now has pushed close the windows and flicked off the lights. I walk in mourning under the crystal gaze of the stars burning. The buildings are of concrete brick and stained with a dirt brown, it never changes these buildings aren’t strong enough to hold weakness. And there’s no reason to enter into them for there in no likeness in them to the Monastery that glows light through the stained glassed windows where purples of greens, yellows and red silhouette the Christ giving forgiveness to the ghetto and poor borrows of the city, for myself I keep the cross in my hand closing it tighter until the wood splinters my hand given birth to blood collecting in a pool in my palm and the down through the fingers the blood drops to the streets. Of this I kneel and pray making water of this life of mine

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