Who Buy Tickets To The Resurrection
I’m just like you only taller
I would like another war, another chance to blow the liquid life from transport trucks and brown paper people, one more war of rot and attrition, with world as my witness, no constraints, become a scorched shell again like we lived our younger years when we drowned our fear in recklessness and illuminated our loss
of virginity with candles for the fallen, sent their coffins to the papers for publication, their ghosts above the fold, their toll and toil in a mist of vaporized futures above the hills and the other side measured for pits in fire bombed places while clocks ticked down fatal hours, beat us stiff with bloodied arms, forced us to force our private child who suffered a familiar loss to kneel his final day in the dirt, but what if he was afraid or sacred, we never asked, in the love of life if you’re white, your bleeding heart exposed to the sun, an accident
of birth, but please don’t run from me, please don’t run from me, I’m just like you only taller, I’m just like you when you put your hands in the air, shuffle your feet, call your gods from hiding as I envy your cyanide liberty, knowing we can travel to Wyoming in dead of winter with four wheel drive, six foot high tires because of you, because of how we learned to hate, and how we learned to take the hate upon our hands and fingers, rub its taste on our tongue, in breathless awe, to free the hard plastic minds of lesser souls with tender explosions, to pay for our mistakes and pray from decks of armored ships, brandish our purified banners to show
an enemy better manners as I inside your house of forgiveness crumble within myself, despise myself, and from the rubble rise to scratch faces in the stone, and how I am to blame for my actions, my desire, because it’s not enough to turn the other cheek when evil pronounces its intentions, we must listen for counterfeit sound, mortar rounds made of sin to rip open next of kin who buy tickets to the resurrection, with silence in trees, a ray of sun through the leaves, one last warble as bird folds his wings before the red fog parts, in a time of misplaced retribution and historical blunders that, as gentle noted horns, float down on melodic destruction from the mountain.