Breath of God

I will be honest.

That man,

I will be honest.

That man,

the one with long hair

broken teeth

covered by filler material.

That man with

apparent life, apparent love.

Is not that man

who loves,

not that man

who cares.

That man, the one

the poem is written for,

fears life, fears love.

Little children die everyday.

Some walk and talk still,

some are dead,

the dead that comes

from bullets ripping flesh

fired from guns

held by other children.

These children,

not the dead,

are comatose.

Killed by the murder of others.

Killed by the cocaine

pumped into them by

their walking bloodless

leaders.

Greedy for power,

lusting

for life to suck.

Don't you know that the comatose

find life by consuming.

They consume it

vultures on a carcass.

Ripping tissue

from bone.

Drinking blood as liquid candy.

That man, the one who

writes this poem for

himself,

knows this. Knows the sleepy

depraving life of a coma

He is not dead.

The dead cannot

write poems about death.

That man writes

of his empty

heart.

- breathe -

That man cannot even kill

a trapped mouse

one that will die

of the trap he set.

The trap that broke

the grey furry creatures back.

That man. That man

tries tangents

so he won't

tell the truth,

That girls,

eight

years old,

girls that usually play house, that usually dress dolls.

That usually

dream.

That girls of

eight

years old

service 30,

thirty!

men a day

a night.

Service men.

Service men.

They, the girls being

eight,

are used for sex.

sex

They are used as

entertainment.

Dreams

are dead

for them.

They have joined

the ranks

of the walking dead.

Killed and flesh

eaten by men

and their phalacies.

That is grotesque.

The worst possible

conclusion of being

human. Of being

created.

That man, the one

writing, hates being a kin

to the vultures .

Hates

ripping

life out of innocence playing with dolls.

That man cannot

take it. he

can't

take

it.

He has tears,

but wonders why,

what they will do for

the dead,

not the dead

but the comatose

who have had their souls

eaten

by lust.

- again - breathe -

That man of apparent

love,

of apparent life.

Has had life ripped,

torn

from his flesh.

He stinks

of paint and b.o.

The other children,

the young boys,

the ones who

should be getting dirty, dreaming of becoming a man strong

and wonderful. The hero.

The ones who should be playing cowboys and Indians,

or the Thai equivalent.

These boys are dead,

not dead,

but comatose. A soul death. They

service older men as well.

they provide.

sex.

Entertainment.

They are killed by

lust.

That man can see the

horrors. He hates

himself, as the

dead hate

the dead.

That man only serviced one,

a patriarch of

his family.

A grandfather

preacher.

That man, the poet, knows death.

Knows tiring sleep.

That man of apparent

life, of apparent

love.

Has caused death.

of an eight year old girl.

That man was not a

man yet, only

twelve.

But that man drank

of blood candy, ate

of flesh.

This is why that man

who writes this poem

hates.

- once more -

It is not always hate.

It is not always death

that that man is

conscious of.

Once in a while

when courage overpowers

fear. He lives. He cries. He loves.

He, that man,

will carry sorrow, hoping

that his life may

somehow prevail

and revive the dead,

like the breath of God

in Adams lungs,

like the first

breath of Christ after

the fires of hell.

That man hopes that

his tales, his prayers

will not be as shallow

as the reanimation

of dead souls

but will provide

the defibrillating

shock of life to

lifeless souls.

As that man,

the one for whom the poem is written,

dreams of this,

He knows his

tears can do nothing.

That his love alone

is nothing.

The breath of God.

The sharp intake of

Christ's resurrected

massacred body

is where it all begins,

where it all ends.