mea culpa for carving “scheiße” into christ’s chest when it shound have been the father, not the son

to be told we dream in black and white, that we are dead when we are sleeping, wandering through the discharge of all the day's events in riding the waves all the way down the trough to the truest core of the self, to know it isn't true, that the outlier is right here as we jump through time and space, that we are the endless tunnel where the graffiti trails off, that we are the wet ground, the overcast day, the hand reaching out of the plume of smoke as well the one we're reaching out for, that we find a way to represent all who we never got a chance to say goodbye to, all who wronged us, shamed us, blamed us for what we could not help but follow through with...to be told these are the nothings we occupy our thoughts with when the world is in flux of being delivered to the knife of the great satan and all his politicos, all his multinational conglomerates, all his bluster and glamor and the terrifying ways he leads where, even more terrifyingly, everyone follows…to be told untruths we know to be true, things we have seen, things we have done, hearts we've tried mending after breaking, reaching out for those who never want to be touched by us again...yes, these have been the choices we've made, and it's all led us right here, which seems nowhere at all, but only seems as such because we've been alive too long, we know the smoke will clear, that we will be faced with one who pretends to be us, but who really is an analogue for the ones we've had to leave behind...only in one sense of reflecting is that us when, for all the others, each is asking why we have gone, where we have gone off to, why we don't return…and who are we to answer them, what would be the point in talking when, supposedly, we are deaf in sleep which means they must also be deaf...soon enough, the smoke will clear and there will be no one there, they will have vanished into the tunnel to sketch more graffiti, they will have climbed the slopes leading up and out of this place,

mea culpa for carving “scheiße” into christ’s chest when it shound have been the father, not the son

they will have escaped where we never can, for always, always, must we return here and face all we never said goodbye to, all we shamed, all we blamed for not being us...and so ours is the hand unclenching, the fist opening, our fingers, the petals to be cut upon the blade...