Where heaven dies

I'm the lost heart of God, like the dust I turn into nothing. My god lift me up for who can worship you from the grave. I reach for you like the dead long for life. If
I only do one thing in this world I pray that it's finding you. Where ever you may be Jesus I love you.

OH death how I dream you. She's always there, watching me as I lose control. All day long I pop pills, until my stomach turns and I vomit. Like a baby thrown into a trash can I wiggle and eat of my garabage waiting for the loss of heaven to come and bring rise to my last days. But she's always there, she's always there. It's in this life that we find god for I don't believe he exsists in death. Death is a farewell before the stairs go black.

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

Capricorn wine

They dream god, where the streets below drink liquor and teams of girls flirt with the alley ways.
They dream god above the blue city, twirling in rooms, angels
in ecstasy drunk from old wine, the young ones new in wings turn and turn in Monet waltzes. Ovid's beauties dance in white heroine gowns, like virgin sex. The smiles
of the young, press against the windows and look at the red
Lights reflecting on the wet street, as the gramophone plays out to the dances.

In Capricorn wine I press my waist against her. She sways with her
curve filling out and in pushing and feeling the weight of my length. The city's lights dim and then heave into full radiance. The rise of the hotel’s moan gleams out the windows a glowing yellow softness the veranda fans out like a viola. I've heard her in the hands that hold legs and breast where lust turns pink in union. Hearts arise “god!" hold her body-by the rise of her waist the bedpost hits the wallpaper, the pages will turn and cover over are bed. We fall and die into a fairy tale and of us will come the pages of the sex of are youth that read from are hearts. I turn the pages now staring at the floor remembering what she said and the distance it takes for love to begin, like wine that charts out the constellations.

Where God is love

Last night I listened, I listened to the open halls closed in by rake and horror. I bent my head to its side, closed my eye's, and watched as the torment and rage billowed, swallowing me in madness. Before when I was young I would run through the house from room to room. A boy’s bright light toys and the silence of denial of life in reverse as mother watches me run down the hall. I thought if I ran fast enough I could be the road runner. I walk the hall and by god his tourniquet tightened, how mommies love makes me vomit, like affairs in the neighbor’s house, heroine needles in dad's Vietnam arm and god’s awful lust of open smiles hailing shells into women and children. I stood and absorbed it watched reality seep into my Virgil mind, tomorrow I'll be 35 sleeping on a foam mattress in the attic, listening to the silent drawl over and over, “Look mom I'm the road runner."

Look mom I'm the Road Runner

Last night I listened, I listened to the open halls closed in by rake and horror. I bent my head to its side, closed my eye's, and watched as the torment and rage billowed, swallowing me in madness. Before when I was young I would run through the house from room to room. A boy’s bright light toys and the silence of denial of life in reverse as mother watches me run down the hall. I thought if I ran fast enough I could be the road runner. I walk the hall and by god his tourniquet tightened, how mommies love makes me vomit, like affairs in the neighbor’s house, heroine needles in dad's Vietnam arm and god’s awful lust of open smiles hailing shells into women and children. I stood and absorbed it watched reality seep into my Virgil mind, tomorrow I'll be 35 sleeping on a foam mattress in the attic, listening to the silent drawl over and over, “Look mom I'm the road runner."

The House of God

The shots sang through the air parallel to the ground like salvation, and thumped into the chests and arms of the men, like god ravaged in drink. Madness spread through their minds and rolled their eyes. I saw some men rise after being shot to death from the holes they dug for trench’s like crosses on ropes and collected the rifle rounds in their bodies like saints spilled over into lust.