Refractions

Refractions

I write my best when every hour feels like four am.
when I am not afraid to tremble
or to prance on the edge of the stage.
I bend my mind, my vision
to see new colors, to feel new feelings,
to hear the sound of the rain falling through the trees
for the first time,
to study with intense fascination
the simplicity of the working class clothesline.

I grew up believing
that Jesus would give me everything
I needed
if I would just ask politely
and tell him how great He was.
But when Bobby died I felt
the loss of an angry god within.
I have danced with the shaman
circling the fire at the eleventh hour
absorbing visions
of the slow death of the Anasazi.
I know the scent of sage burning
and rising from the kivas
where I keep my unfulfilled prayers;
yet I hear the voice of god more clearly
in the pleading questions of a schizophrenic
than I do in the answers provided
by the mountain climbing mystics.

I pursue significance
and hope for purpose
but I often misinterpret the message
and then call it a lie.

I put on my face
and check my look in the mirror
to see if I can see myself,
but the glass is skewed
the lighting is off
the paint and the plastic are thick.
I want to change the direction
of the thoughts passing
from my senses through my mind
to see the beauty I cannot see
to erase the image
of the white man who looks down,
the eyes that do not connect
and to achieve an acceptance of
the reflection of my Father
the reflection of my father
in whose image I was created.