I never read the comic books as a kid –
I had no Capcom, no Marvel.
Chose more of a holy ensemble. I looked at the Bible's light in graphical shading, pinpointed
lines of symmetry in juxtaposition
with dialogue and cheesy legends.
I painted images in my frontal lobe –
Constructed and critiqued sample-sized scriptures,
added pictures and threw capes on God's men.
God's prophets then, thought of the potential profit generated through selling hope in religion.
This one time, I thought I was Jesus.
That's 'cause my grandmother told me
that even the most helpless men
can be God's angels therefore thou shalt give what one can.
But now once and again I barely give
an eternal damnation anymore, I sinned hard
and still I thought I was Jesus –
Because I've been crossed by the people I love,
and I've been stoned to get high and be next to God,
but even in a life with no sins attached, you stand
next to no chance of ever getting graced with his presence.
I used to believe in
the chicken before the egg
until sinners cracks shells open fire on my block
and killed God's most blessed, infants and
children who never even got a chance
to taste real words or communion or blessings.
I saw my beam of light through bullet holes
in homes not Holy Ghost in people.
I've seen hell's replica on Woodward
with sin sweet like sugar seasoning
the streets with cane like crack.
Canes that the elderly use
to beat the greedy in need of that superhero
I once looked up to. Scribbled into scriptures
in the book of Jesus ... or God, or whoever
I'm supposed to pray to again.
I keep trying to remember to pray,
but my instinct as the devil's prey
isn’t praised in the appraisal fees
I have to pay now once and again.
Cliché Christian mentality – I know and I try to push passion out
and put forth an effort in breathing. But in seasons like this
we need reasons, to believe that the pastors don't feed us poison on pulpit
podiums, I need more of a reason to even wake up but that don't make me
heathen, don't make me kryptonite. There's too much
struggle on concrete jungle block, it rains too much, there's no bat signals in the sky,
and it's grey, so I don't look up
for our father.
This piece is the first of a four-part series. To view the second piece (published in Issue IX), click here.