The filth-crusted alley,
like a plague-filled artery
beginning its collapse,
presses around my meditation.
A bag of wasted food,
plastic wrappers, moist paper,
and used condoms —
the discarded dream
of human progress —
serves as my cushion
as I hold the pose
of easy victory.
A wall of guitar,
heavy with reverb —
a post-punk prayer —
comes from a distance
to vibrate just by
the right ear
which listens for God.
The smell of decayed personhood
mixes with the howl
of so many golems,
shuffling clay and air,
to preach a sensory sermon
on the relative reality
of waking nightmares,
hungry ghosts,
and living death.
The lesson learned,
I shall dwell in this tomb
for so long as my Father wills,
but of fresh plaster
or of white wash
it will never know.
Until that day comes,
the tomb shall be my temple.

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