Holy Misinterpretations

Wee hours of the night, early morning cafe’s, early mornings, before sun rises, before coffee hits back of throat.

I write where … in those sacred places. In the John, during those quiet goodbyes, we whisper at the end of a chapter of our lives. I write….

Barroom napkins. Comfort view screens. The taste of vomit rolling around tonsils. Trying to fill the white spaces of a diary. A memory filled pen sketching his filthy fingers as guilt.

I write where the uncomfort is. The pain. I write on walls in metaphorical blood of enemies. I write on walls as a reminder not to forget childhood memories.

I write like madmen speak to their demons. Where demons are old friends, angels, fickle lovers. I write where the tops of heaven reach the ninth circle of hell because TODAY!

NO man nor god can rid me of this inevitable form. This rudimentary immortality.I write into the hearts of generations millennia from present day. Words made holy by misinterpretation.
I write in that space between our worlds.