god the holy father

a dumb little poem i wrote about hamlet and fate and humanity 

The world of the tragic hero is a carefully constructed cage. You can thrash and cry and philosophize and pray and try and try to get it right. But we know its useless. The tragedy of the hero is not himself- it is his narrative. His fate is sealed to his skin. Trying to break free only bears the bond to bone; careful, there’s blood on the floor. Careful, there’s sweat on your back. Careful, son of son of god, it’ll all be over soon. Close your eyes, honey. Try not to think about the cracks in the skull. Try not to think of the swan sing song-ing angels. Try not to think of burning. Try not to think of drowning. Remember- this is bigger than you’ll ever be. Remember, Michael was a holy weapon. Remember, a weapon is forged in fire. Remember that it breaks eventually. Michael never had a mother. Remember you are born in sin. Remember how god washed the earth clean, all those, all those years ago? Remember? You were there, too. Remember drowning? Remember the oak-dust-stained behemoth? Remember how it passed you by? Remember the salt, creeping into your lungs and veins and backs of eyes and pits of stomachs? Remember how it tasted like violence? Remember how the dirt was lifted from beneath your fingernails? Remember how softly, wholly, purely it burned? That’s it. The glowing grace of god- as close as you’ll ever come. Remember how Michael did his job- he didn’t live to the end, but he wasn’t ever born. Remember the peace before life? Before sin? Before pain? Go back. Go back. You have to get back. Claw your way from hell, if heaven will not pull you up you will drag it back to earth, arms torn from tendons blue-black bruised and ragged red, white clouds curled atop the dust of a thousand thoughtless atoms, halos circling the fresh turned earth spread over milk-stained remains of rusted looking-glasses, harps plucking tales of gods and devils tune carried corner to tip by heaving sighs howled by our holy Mother Mary, careful, son. There’s blood on your hands.