And everything in between

He is
The street and the sky
And everything in between.
Everything was foreseen by that

Little boy sitting in front of a wooden television,
In the early morning sunlight,
Watching X-men in Batman p.j’s. while eating
Captain crunch out of a plastic neon blue bowl,
Thinking to himself,
“Im pretty sure I used to be able to fly like that”.


He became
The young man entering the fairgrounds of an electric freak show
With the moon’s reflection casting off his black wings he would eagerly
Fly towards the stage with child like nimbleness.
Not ever taking for granted how sacredly divine the wicked night can be,
He was
Honored to be among those who lived for the NOW.
Dancing away his pain as if remembering a past life
When he led the ceremony of a Cherokee funeral procession.
Moving, swaying, laughing, gasping
Until all that exists is bass throbbing through his skin and sweat,
His heart in perfect unison with forty thousand other selves;
Beat junkies
United under the banner of techno industrialization.
They grew up playing in parks were concrete
Daisies rose up from steel grass.
These were His people.

Later
On his knees in front of a sacred alter,
Deep within the mountains of David,
Under the protective eye of the sun,
He prayed for forgiveness and righteousness.
Was retribution possible for such a wretch?
His life not his but His to do as He wills.
Ready to die for his sins and
Ready to live for his people.


Before than though
He had forgotten the feeling of sunlight as it touches the skin
That sensual relief that the light could offer,
Like being touched by a true lover,
Had been completely erased from his memory banks
So that the pain of realizing the lacking
Was never possible.
Sitting underneath the free way over pass, he day dreamed again of being a crow
As he listened to the sounds of the cars as they whirred by like shooting stars
On their way to a new life. Without light
He used a needle
To tattoo his sins across his body.
He refused to forget.

Now
He must wear baggy clothes so no one can see his pain
But when he raises his hand in class a small piece of
The black art becomes visible and
For an instant his vulnerability turns him into
A small green glass shard from a broken bottle of Mickey’s.
The left over remains of a good time that turned into
Empty promises and a rotten fucking hang over.
Completely see through until he lowers his hand
And the shirt sleeve covers the stain.

Than he is just quiet, innocent, Steven.
The street and the sky
And everything in between.