Once we were a room,
a space for the spilling of pagan oaths,
for the pleading of primal prayers.
Now that room rages
upon an emptiness only my blood hears.
Bondage was good for us.
“You’re not my master”, she would say,
“you are me taking me”. She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
at least by sexual union.
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
As her descendent she shared herself with me.
I imagine her now as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire.
Her skin a sensual braille for my shaping hands.
Her limbs submissive yet grasping a
binding chimera. Flesh capturing silks;
blind Labial dances preface
a choreography of complying violence.
We struggle with the glottal language
of inarticulate gods,
we’re deep sea divers bound to an erotic gravity.
This place is a womb
for the birthing of tattooing hungers.
Rooms enter rooms until dark suns
open our mouths with their electric flares.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves
his shriveled member
into another girl – another room.
A place we were pleased to burn down
again, and again.
My son,
I gave you a perfect world
That took billions of your years to create...
And you destroy it daily.
I watch you kill your brothers
I watch you kill the innocent in My name...
I watch you kill yourself.
I watch your heart harden
As your brothers slowly starve and perish...
While you yourself prosper.
I watch you kill your children
As you reject My most sacred gift of life...
I watch you slowly die.
I watch you defile yourself
And pervert that sacred gift of sexual union...
Between you and Eve.
I watch you reject My love
I watch you try to crucify the truth in vain...
And embrace a lie instead.
I remember the first question
That you asked thousands of years ago...
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Can you not hear My voice?
I've spent thousands of years answering...
But you've not heard a word.
My son, I have watched you
I have watched you from the beginning...
And as I watch........I weep.
Your Father,
God.