Self Portrait With a Gun at the Back of My Head

I grew up in oblivion where hands came
on some days with cordless wands to grant wishes

in time—the neck of my age is father’s name
and his child dares not micturate in the night.

in art, I am— told us he gives guns to people with god-fingers
to abide in his ambidextrous brush strokes

I, revered to the teachings of pixels
and it is different from rosaries dipped in water.

flow is blood
for feet to follow.

fingers that take steps to the tomb
we’re once strangers in this head——so

when the basket sits under the roof of this church
does it collect the time I am left with scriptures when

during confessions he uses cotton bud after eating carrots
detained for when tongues become guns and words become …

Ruddapoet