the words of revelation fall from your lap to mine,
god. it’s perhaps that i’m the wrong john or jacob,
but superfluous was not in the universe’s law.
job asked why the righteous suffer,
and i was sated by your wisdom before it led to me.
you held the blood and you sew them to stars
raining memories of jerusalem, of
an innocent mind turned against you.
i threw your book out and it soaked out
the iron garden, as did i.
we lived in a city enclosed in adobe.
by itself, i hear the procession of children crusades
pillaging broken windows
playing the seven trumpets of solitude
plied within. god, they say
you are right. i know, before adam and eve, that
you do not imply fair.
jerusalem was a city,
and it became a citadel where the walls
grow and i am ripped at your endpoints
by moving stones of forgotten
childhoods, forgotten graves.
i shed feathers of ink on easter monday,
finding where i am on your number lines only to find
you penned the word of the world
in six and gave all we would be. inside, time withers
as i am carted away to churches
and there, we are taught to walk on your road away
from you. all roads lead to rome, but you are jerusalem.
so i follow no road, but know the cobbles itself.
i unproof each hint scattered across of your emptiness,
only to lose the faint starlight of each insight
that you have written with the ink of my sight.
some people know you as real.
the agnostics don’t know, and the atheists know.
but there is nothing to know about you.
god, you are love pulling me out
the windows six feet down.
you are the unanswered telephone calls to a matrimony
slipping through my inside before the broken cups
of coffee spills emptiness to the milky way.
you are the celestial pages of scripts
thrown to hard ground
eluding this verse i scribe.
maybe i may be grasped at the seventh hour,
at the fixing of the seventh angel to nights. i pray at sabbath,
when you are asleep. god,
i do not comprehend the silences today.
your poetry are bricks calling me at the pane
but all i only knew was how to lie in your name.