Temple
TEMPLE
If my body is
my temple what have I
done to this sacred
place? Flesh of
flesh. How my heart
falters. Sputters. My
liver a panel of stained
glass marking the stations
of the cross. Booze. Hard
drugs. Hard
life. Multiple
resurrections. The
night I rose from
the dead. The days
I left the living. How do I
reconcile the desecrations?
The ones done to me. The ones
I did to myself. I ride
my bike through wind. Talk
with dead spirits. Beg
for my own survival. I’ve
made it this far. Please
take me to the next
days of days. I wake
in the morning and plant
my feet on the floor. Touch
god through cement and
earth. The very fact
that I am still standing
is a miracle. I will
bring myself to my knees
and beg for salvation if that
is what it takes. Turn destruction
to beauty. Rebuild
the infrastructure. Document
violations in colors
so bright violence is
washed away in rivers
of paint and ink.
Take this skeleton
of self. Peel
layers from my
skin. Listen
to my organs
sing a hymn pulsing
in my own blood
coursing through veins
etched with tracks of
a thousand lives and a thousand
needles. My life
mapped in the delicate
lines drawn by razor
blades and drunken
fingers. Oh fragile
temple forgive
me. I have
dishonored you. Even
as I work to keep
you strong I bring you
down. In my fight
for survival I kill
you yet you survive
a myriad of deaths.
I have underestimated
the infestations. Termites
in the floorboards. Rats
in the attic. I am littered
with old news. Time
for a bonfire. Light
the frankincense. Burn
some candles. The
Virgin Mary melts
in pink wax. Lay
myself on the altar.
I am waking to a resurrection.
Welcome to the rest
of my life. I rebuild
the wreckage. Create
a new temple. With
sleep, honesty, and love.
Reconciliation with self
is reconciliation with the world
as it stand and as it falls.