An Ashcan Burns At The Feet Of Christ
New York City, 1996
Through the iron bars, beneath paint stuck windows, along littered dirty streets, amongst the rat infested playgrounds, there is a voice crying out; a voice being heard but not listened to; a voice in pain; an incantation lost in the howling winds of apathy and indifference; verbal regurgitations bathed in streetlight and cloaked in maniacal laughter. There are eyes looking through those grimy windows, looking down at the wasteland of human endeavor.
In the back alleys of Jerusalem a prophet lies naked, drunk and covered in sick, pissing against a brick wall and gazing at the stars which appear dim over the skies of New York City but bright in the hearts of every man, woman and child who still have hope — a cheap dime store dream washed down with a glass of water scooped out of the East River. The prophet snores through the immolation of desires, immolation of lives, immolation of dreams, where pint sized Al Capones draw their guns, deal their dope, and crush the dreams of children who sit on sandstone stoops and rusted fire escapes counting the stars they see as nothing more than blotches on their future.
Whores fuck and pimps are getting paid. Whores dance amongst the orgasms and suck off the lonely man who wanders the asphalt desert in search of meaning. In the dark alley, an ashcan burns at the feet of Christ and his shadow shimmers on the wall amongst the graffiti and scriptures of the urban prophets too hungry or dope sick to give a shit about the clouded jewels on his crown of thorns.
And I hear your voice in the night, a whisper, faint and sweet, and I feel your presence in my heart; and see your eyes in the dark, feel your pumping heart and loving hands opening the door to my soul; and despite the scenery outside the window, you are the shining light which illuminates the world.