Heathen Child

I am the heathen child
the one which conducts playtime in the closets
when you're away
scattered applause makes
lightning white noise in between my legs
my ears lies the brain
reveals all the truth I need
in direct succession,
my research takes its poison
its gun
the bullets and the hands at rest
all the religious articles wet on the rug next to me
I would slice my wrists
but I sit back in the bathtub instead
only to find that the God is not necessary
as the rest of you see him.
Him, dressed in my bathrobe...
I was raised by beasts and killed by vultures
and I am the proof that they all exist.
You think they will protect you.
You are wrong.
Sucking my thumb, nestled
in the light between my eyes
where Heaven grows and Hell subsides;
Nothing scares me, and that is that.
Bring on the thunderstorm so I can ride it into you
and into that God which I am.
Look up, bright now, and remember to not do anything
without your full heart in it.  Otherwise, why bother.
This you tell like a charming serpent, firing the machine guns into the night-
Chop my throat with that ax, and makes all the bullshit fall away down the drain.
The water runs clear out the window, into the sky and street
and all the while I am dancing
the Buddha is for me to meet. The Jesus in me moans,
for the dark Mary he left sitting on the rock;
for the Allah that I walk with, all of them sent up the chute
at my disposal-
Let it run, I say.  But No one will tell me it can't be my way
because mine is theirs is the kingdom and the glory
whores and grace and humility and the stoic quality
that lets me know to feel is not to smear your tragedy all over the rest of us.
To love is not to sacrifice, but to gain up the shadows that your bullet holes make
without regret
and walk forth, knowing who you are and make sure to smile too, but
only
if you want to.


M. Lucia