The Last Reflection

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Abstract

enuflecting at the altar of another man’s dream.Is there a hell Lord? Train tracks are tattooed up and down my arms and between my toes. Sister Sally feeds and warms me on the days You won’t let me in. Carol left her baby at the hospital and died later that night with a needle in her arm. Roy and me found Carol with a smile on her face. Hell is just another man’s heaven.Where is your salvation God? I see the people walking the streets and falling to their knees. They beg, Lord. Asking for mercy from the man and You. They scream — Stop killing me. I matter, too. I can’t breathe. They cry out to their mamas. She’s dead and gone. Crowds gather, but it’s too late. Your grace is reserved for another skin.Where is your kingdom, Lord? I lay on a cardboard box. The sun crisped my skin black and I have no shoes. The mayor’s man — MM I called him— talked to me and my brothers and sisters. He wore a black mask. Stepping on and over our homes he told us to wear a mask and wash our hands. But I have no shoes. MM smiled and gave me a blue paper mask. Feet don’t kill, he said. I’m hungry, I told him. He gave me his protein bar and walked over to my

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neighbors 3 boxes down. I think his mask smiled.What happens when I die, God? Grace and redemption left me long ago. A benevolent and merciful god stood on stacks of old Playboys and condemned me to walk the streets of Purgatory. It was penance for a misspent youth. Contrition for an unrepentant old age. I carry torn pages of His gospels for toilet paper but I leave my drinking hand free.You’re not here, God. I don’t think you ever were. It hurts to breathe. Roy told me You floated in last night and kissed me goodbye. You remember the mayor’s man – MM. He found me and put a tube down my throat. Him and his girls in white coats and painted masks ask me if there is anyone to call. Carol is gone. Roy has no phone. The man is listening he says. I nod no.A different MM stays the night with me. Checking my tubes and black beeping screens. In the morning I wake up. MM is holding my hand. Like your boys and mamas on the streets, it feels like a knee is on my neck. I can’t breathe. I know my eyes are scared because MM tells me its okay. He’s here. It’s okay, he says again. Close your eyes. That’s when I see Carol. And You.</article></body>

Thoughts given to God or whoever wants to listen

Who am I God, but a small reflection of you? Are you real or the lost meanderings of a tired man pounding on a worn black book? As a child I burnt the air around me. I grew from sin to sin, cutting tarnation deep into the skin my brothers and sisters, neighbors, and priests. Salvation was offered in bread and wine, but the grace I found lay between two legs and a fifth of bourbon.

Do you feel me Lord? Wandering from street to street, pissing on the lamppost, waiting for the police or a kind stranger to take me home. My neighbors sleep on cardboard boxes while a glowing cross burns its shadow onto their skins.

Am I saved God? I have no money to put into your breadbasket and my knees hurt from genuflecting at the altar of another man’s dream.

Is there a hell Lord? Train tracks are tattooed up and down my arms and between my toes. Sister Sally feeds and warms me on the days You won’t let me in. Carol left her baby at the hospital and died later that night with a needle in her arm. Roy and me found Carol with a smile on her face. Hell is just another man’s heaven.

Where is your salvation God? I see the people walking the streets and falling to their knees. They beg, Lord. Asking for mercy from the man and You. They scream — Stop killing me. I matter, too. I can’t breathe. They cry out to their mamas. She’s dead and gone. Crowds gather, but it’s too late. Your grace is reserved for another skin.

Where is your kingdom, Lord? I lay on a cardboard box. The sun crisped my skin black and I have no shoes. The mayor’s man — MM I called him— talked to me and my brothers and sisters. He wore a black mask. Stepping on and over our homes he told us to wear a mask and wash our hands. But I have no shoes. MM smiled and gave me a blue paper mask. Feet don’t kill, he said. I’m hungry, I told him. He gave me his protein bar and walked over to my neighbors 3 boxes down. I think his mask smiled.

What happens when I die, God? Grace and redemption left me long ago. A benevolent and merciful god stood on stacks of old Playboys and condemned me to walk the streets of Purgatory. It was penance for a misspent youth. Contrition for an unrepentant old age. I carry torn pages of His gospels for toilet paper but I leave my drinking hand free.

You’re not here, God. I don’t think you ever were. It hurts to breathe. Roy told me You floated in last night and kissed me goodbye. You remember the mayor’s man – MM. He found me and put a tube down my throat. Him and his girls in white coats and painted masks ask me if there is anyone to call. Carol is gone. Roy has no phone. The man is listening he says. I nod no.

A different MM stays the night with me. Checking my tubes and black beeping screens. In the morning I wake up. MM is holding my hand. Like your boys and mamas on the streets, it feels like a knee is on my neck. I can’t breathe. I know my eyes are scared because MM tells me its okay. He’s here. It’s okay, he says again. Close your eyes. That’s when I see Carol. And You.