#soundseasons

Señor, ten piedad de nosotros…

Cristo, ten piedad de nosotros…

((English: Lord, have mercy on us… Christ, have mercy on us…))

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.”

((English: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.))

(( I slipped the English translation into (parentheses) for y’all after the drop.))

…but I don’t sit in pews no more.

I kneel in paint. I confess to walls.

My parish got no priest

just prophets with spray cans and scars.

This my church, this my choir,

burnt-out saints with their hands on fire.

I find peace where the echoes bleed,

Graffiti Pier, where the broken lead.

Tag the truth in aerosol breath,

we paint life on the face of death.

I grew up at St. Anne’s.

Irish rosaries, Polish bread.

But none of them saints

ever cried like my friends did

when Mari was found blue on the steps.

Not even the Virgin wept.

The altar was marble.

But the pier? That’s bones.

That’s pillars of prayers

written in names the city never claimed.

You call it defacement

I call it scripture.

“RIP Tone” ain’t just a tag.

It’s a gospel.

It’s a scream that got turned into color

so it could outlive the sirens.

I seen more peace under tags than I ever did in stained glass.

These pillars hold grief better than any pew ever has.

I light candles with my breath,

name the dead in color.

They took Jay in winter,

but he still sings through bubble letters.

My confession booth is concrete.

The river my witness.

Even when I say nothing,

these walls remember my business.

And if the saints don't answer?

The spray cans do.

Each hiss a hallelujah.

Each drip a prayer come true.

Blessed are the cracked,

for they let the light in.

Blessed are the tagged,

for they won't be forgotten.

Blessed are the fallen,

for they still speak in color.

This my church, this my choir,

burnt-out saints with their hands on fire.

I find peace where the echoes bleed,

Graffiti Pier, where the broken lead.

Tag the truth in aerosol breath,

we paint life on the face of death.

I don’t need no steeple to hear God.

I just sit quiet, let the paint speak.

And when the sun hits the pillars just right…

it feels like resurrection.

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.”