“On A Baltimore Street” by Chris Campbell

I write this on a Baltimore street,
Thin cracks in the concrete separate the Heavens and the Hells…
How can we build these towers in the clouds from the ground,
But not be able to feed this man full of scabs and fear of anger and contempt of rage?
How can we fool a species worth
with such terrible intent and hate?
I wander between the symbols and signs and cryptic entities,
Does Evil even have a place for such divinity as I?
Hear ye!! Hear ye!!
The waves shimmer with my touch!
The stars rain hard upon my chest!
Have we forgotten that we are Gods?
Shall we remember sometime soon?
Before the clarion calls of the angels
and rapture and madness and doom?
Hear ye!! Hear ye!
The sea breeze sprouts wings upon my back!
Music of all that’s left penetrates my being!
The angels of night make the winds sing!
For me!
And as my shoulder blades bleed deep of heavenly wounds and open cuts,
I’m fully breached, in tune with the moon,
In flux,
Makes for complexity,
Of thought and height and touch,
Oh, Lords and Gods of Peace!!
Erupt!! Erupt!! Erupt!!
I open my eyes to the streets,
Mouth full of light, agape,
Screaming in an instance…
No one seems to listen.
Not even the man scraping for cigarette butts beneath the black overcast of the tower of no food,
For he is too busy distracting to catch the tragic irony,
Instead, he must work to curb his appetite and tenderly lick his wounds,
Not even he who has not eaten!
Even our victims crucify the Lords!!
I fade into the background…
A silent God in these streets of mindless banter and confusion and musk and perfumes,
No divinations,
Only broken jars of miracles and scattered bits of runes,
Why so soon must death loom?
His voice is hoarse, his cheeks wet with grief,
“I am not thine enemy!” Death weeps, his throat full of scabs of shouting,
His voice exhausted of fear of anger and contempt of rage,
He shrieks his last gasp before collapsing,
“It is you who art thy own pain!!”

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