The Night I Jammed Mama's Fingers on the Door

v2

I am angry
at the congregants who walked passed me
their eyes puncturing the glass wall
into my conscience as I sat there
surrounded by two elders
who told me I was being stripped naked.

I am angry
at the long ride back home
on an evil-sounding motorcycle
behind my father who kept telling me
everything will be alright
when none of everything made sense.

I am angry
at that godforsaken stricken, insomniac mind
wandering the callejons of the ceiling
of my room like a mendicant
with a necktie chocking my shirt
and socks concealing now, tomorrow, yesterday.

I am angry
at my mother who is now knocking at my door
calling me his son when none of that matters
like sin and delirium and YHWH
like nails and flesh and bone
in a cocktail of a dawn that refuses to break.

Darkness poured that night
stricken, insomniac
my mind wanders the streets of the ceiling,
mendicant of tangled callejons
of now, tomorrow, yesterday.

I bawled as I entered my room.
Removed my necktie and socks
and dived into the bed of sadness.

"Why do you punish me, Father,
when you have hurt me many times?
I no longer see the difference
of sin and delirium!"

I heard a knock.
My son...
You peeked but refused to enter.
My son...
You trusted your fingers
on the doors of hell.

My only son...

But those words mean nothing.
I was never born by anyone.
I am but chaff drifting with the wind.
Here today, gone tomorrow.
My name is violence.

And so I stood up
and I pushed
the door that hit
jammed
nails
flesh
bone
your love
that exists between
you
and I
and the dawn
that refuses to break.