The Color Red
Courage is not death or dying or killing
No guns or shields, humvees on dusty roads
Or miracle cures for mid-American faded dreams
God bless us; God keep us
I am praying, but not for you; for us.
We need it more.
For them; they die with each word.
You kill and speak of compassion
And with their dying breath they praise the sinner
And the sin that commits them to the devil
Or the pearly gates, or either way, the ground.
Large endeavors – money, oil, triumph
Pedestals to stand on.
Guard against all evil; who will keep us from ourselves?
What evils do you rally against?
What wisdoms, pretentious, do you claim?
Pretentious. Yes, it is your job. No, you cannot save us.
Pray to God or pray to you
Idolatrous bastard, worshipping war.
Faith is dead; you’ve killed it. You are man or monster or demon or ghost.
You will fade into wispy clouds on quiet gray nights
When we sing and rejoice the coming, coming, always coming, always waiting.
You cannot hide your horns beneath soft fleece and holy words
Like “God” and “faith” and “prayer”
And “futures.” What will they hold?
And “justice.” When will it come?
Instead of love, it’s enterprise you praise.
The way of Christ indeed… and you invoke his name
And he turns over, very much alive, in his grave
The darkness smothers and he cannot see or think
That this is what we’ve done with his word.
Father weeps, son polishes his sword and mother seeks, seeks, seeks
As we are always seeking
For answers, medicine. Where are the pills?
We need them, God. We need the drugs,
Not heroin or meth or even weed. Not anymore.
No artificial highs; they are too good for us. We cannot imagine feeling so good.
We only want someone to dig us out,
To roll the stone away. This tomb is blinding.
See? Do you see? My wounds are there still. Touch them! They bleed.
They don’t make pills for this.
Stock market saviors don’t know flesh; they cannot heal it.
Numbers won’t revive. I’m dying.
In all our loathsome cries, we search.
The lies are overwhelming; I cannot breathe
The great Republican fist hit me hard and broke my ribs
My lungs are no more; my heart is soon to follow.
No more money. We need a different green.
We need colors, blues and reds, but blood turns gray
Or do I bleed only to see the color red?
Or because He bled?
A death so noble: is this what you’re trying to achieve?
Sick martyrdom at the hands of the Devil?
Would your head on a platter appease you? I’m certain it can be arranged.
No, not a threat. Misunderstanding.
Sure, I’ll stand behind these bars. The rope? It’s tight enough. The chair? It’s comfortable. The needle? Like water my skin drinks in.
No gun? No knife? Can’t we kill like civilized people?
Can’t I see red one more time before I go?
What happened to mercy? I have faith. I pray.
These candles, incense, faded pictures of Mary.
She holds her child back, for fear of what he might do.
Let him be. We deserve it. Peace will come later.
Take it back, all the things you said before, you Goddamn hypocrite.
Won’t I be forgiven this one blasphemy?
You blaspheme with your presence, every breath, thought, word, deed
What you have done, what you have left undone.
Whole heart. Neighbors. Selves.
Pray for us sinners. Forgive us. The sheep are lost.
Where is your hook and white cloak and the little dog that keeps us?
He laughs, I bet, that you have lost us,
Driven us to solid saviors, liquors, smoke and infidelity.
We will be forgiven; we have tried and failed in earnest.
Our drink is in your cup. You are tangled in our dirty bedsheets. Your lungs are gray.
Miss your cocaine days?
Just another miscreant turned misanthrope.
This melting pot’s been on too long. It’s burning.
He’s coming any day now to put out the fire.
Any day now.
Any day.
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