Merciel

Stand on broken knees,
test the fear of heights,
abandon rotten relics,
take back stolen nights,
step into the dark,
redirect the stars
to shower the soil with light,
leave the baggage behind,
taste fresh bread and wine
(preferably homemade).
The saints will say you’re lost,
but did they ever bother
to learn your name
in their quest for fame?

I beseech you, World, shake this comatose flesh out of slumber!
Carry my pleas to heart! Break down the door
of this cage before these white walls become my grave.
I open reluctant eyes to darkness, crawl to the bathroom
to blanch my face in the moldy sink only to discover
I’m trapped in bed stranded in a recurring nightmare.

I pray you, Sun, pry sewn eyes from sleep with marvelous light!
Break me out of Babel! Are your eternal rays that part seas
impotent to creep through the plastic blinds erected
by family and friends in the name of comfort?
In rare moments when I briefly wake, I find no star
outside to deliver me into dawn, so, I fall into bed again.

Nobody calls, nobody prays; I may be trapped here the rest
of my days. Can’t reach a knob, can’t find a key,
but I discover lock-picks grated onto me:
ten razors to tear through mummified flesh,
unsheathe the frozen heart; ten whips to crack
the glacier shell, hatch the chick out of its hell.
Saturate it with fire to sweat out the tears,
squeeze out each drop of fear to restore buoyancy.
Liberated cells surface through the cracks
to welcome me back to the living world.
Fatigued, atrophied, and disoriented, but alive enough
to step outside and taste the air of life, perhaps see her
again.

A young slender evangelist came to my door
with caramel skin and cocoa-colored hair:
the frame around her cherry-glossed smile.
Hazelnut eyes portrayed beatific reflections
I followed a stranded sailor toward spotted shore.

She shared a verse from 2nd Timothy barely heard
through the agony of unkempt ruffles of hair,
cakes of crust around bloodshot half-dead eyes,
a pair of pajama pants fashioned with a Scooby Doo shirt,
and a stench of fish that permeates the porch
(doubtful last night’s cologne could eclipse it).

Perhaps a smile could pierce the layers of dust,
persuade her to polish me until I shine once more.
A smile wide enough for dimples, reserved enough
to conceal stray bagel morsels eaten moments before.
I breathed in the visage as long as polite
with the obligatory glance to her protege:
a larger boy with frightened eyes and a nervous smile.
How I envied him! How I dreamt to follow her
across the neighborhood, gluttonously lap
the sight of her hips hugged by the burgundy skirt
plot the steps to strip her out of jacket and blouse,
devour the dollops of coffee ice cream beneath,
discover the epicenter and dig to unearth the elixir.
She would teach me to preach; I would teach her to purr.

She handed me a magazine with a promise to return
in the near future. I slid back into the house
and thanked the Lord for a second chance to see her,
this time showered, primped, and transfigured.

Silver drops dash to and fro betwixt the fallen trunk
and the muddy shore. Unable to slow, unable to go
in a direction without a turn or bend or bump
into a sibling. Blackheads upon the polished reflection
of the firmament, I pick a pebble and drop it down.
They scatter at the plop, but not very far. Again
they appear as the ripples soften and return
to their game of traffic: tick, tock, tick, tock, PLOP!

The song ceases–she vanishes
behind velvet curtains–
but he already strayed too far
into the fantasy to forget her:
another twenty another few days
in hopes to earn a soulmate.

Eyes of Nod stumble into Eden’s canyon,
drown in the deluge of milky waterfalls
dammed by a meek cream-colored top.
The pastor preaches the power of prayer,
but ears cannot hear at such a depth
betwixt Babel towers no light can scale.
The hunger whets his mouth, muffles
his mind in mirages: to fill her, to subdue her.
The sermon ceases; he slithers to the back
to welcome the girl with the divine rack.

Chained to a chair among distant peers
who see me a shrub among the playboys
who pleasure their palates. I bury my
ostrich head in my phone and wander
aimlessly about the Internet veiled
with determination to deceive any nosy
eye that may catch a crack within the guild–
unearth the runt too often exposed
in previous exhibition unintentionally
burlesque–and ignite old bruises still
borne in my chest. Bridges burnt–now
cursed an island–though the shore is inviting.

An old friend wades through the crowd
toward my direction. I sheath the phone;
I rehearse the lines prepared to convince
her of transfiguration–to show her how
interesting I’ve become. A smile beckons
her closer, ears anxiously await to the baptism
offered by her voice, but the bitch travels
over me to the long-haired teen who leads
the worship band (and plays the douche
at the Yogurt Mill every Sunday night).
I scurry into my phone once more and
respond to imaginary text messages.

I wait for the night to end before the sermon
begin. The crowd gravitates to the chairs
furthest from me, but a new girl breaks
the taboo and sits beside me. She anoints me
a saint with her oceanic eyes–she offers
me her name–she brings me back to life;
I offer her kindness incarcerated for years.
We exchange social graces that gild the surface
of the treasure chest we just discovered,
then we turn to the pulpit as Pastor Mike prepares
his sermon–as I prepare to listen again
for the first time in three years.

A ghost, I slither through her entourage,
slide fingers into the seams telescopic eyes unveiled–
tabooed truth among the moles and mimes–and pull:
black shirt ironed with logos of pop punk bands
slip off her shoulders; faded jeans pressed
with handprints of former friends fall, followed
by panties and bra–bare but for her Vans.
Mesmerized by the scenic mountains for millennia,
drawn to the depths of crevices I dreamt to explore
since the day we first met at the church’s cafe,
but still I search for more seams to unstring–
a loose thread dangles from her tongue’s sheathed edge.
Persistence powered by pain pulls until even the flesh
I fantasized about fucking falls to the dirt–beneath
the silk is found neither bone nor muscle nor heart
nor brain–only darkness unnoticed those midnights
I followed her into alleys after worship, but now I see
in the bright hangover light her contours conform
to the bottom of the soles of the boys she follows–
everywhere. Now I see why she spoke so highly
of animal rights when I was her best friend.

Shut slits drip drops–
the streams stain the flushed face
in whitewashed trails across the expanse
beneath the quaking horizon,
but not one drop drips
into the serpent’s plate–
each drizzles into hands drawn
toward infinitely toward infancy–
dabbled in novelties that ferment
into renovated firmaments–
oblivion’s face debased
as the prince commences the crusade.
Even vinegar sweetens deserted
palates–the density sobers inebriated
stations, cracks the core of Calvary,
resurrects crucified love renewed:
I am reborn.

The thief wakes me from the dream I fell in–
the nightmare frightens away my inhibitions–
I crawl through thorny gardens–they puncture
the box that imprisons my spirit–torrents
flood the desert I strayed into–stranded
on a lie by a girl I once loved and still require
for life–and pour into plains with a tempest
that quakes the stillborn world. The Sea reborn
on midnight as the dawn approaches.
The drought ends when the rain begins.