Modern-Day Dante: The Unfunky Monk Works in D.C.

I walk through elaborate
stained oak doors, and
people on the other side
want to know my thoughts.
They ask, “Where do those
doors lead?” I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”
The lines in my shirt point
to my face.
The lines on the wall point
to my face.
The microphone points
to my face.
And they ask me,
“Why does everything point
to your face?” I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”

I know things they
should never know.
I've seen things they
should never see.
And still, they ask,
“Will you tell us
what you know.”
And still, I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”
I hope.

I can't tell them of
the wormhole through
the devil's bowels.
I can't tell them of
the creatures, once
people, disfigured
with sin and white
with fear. Deformations
of imagination. Arms
like snakes, biting
their own faces.
I can't tell them of
Earth exploding
1 million times.
I can't tell them of the
sanguine screams of
children scratching
my nape like needles
through a lover's hand.
The taste of liquid
iron as it creeps
down my throat, melting
my lungs, squeezing
nausea through my
pores.
I can't tell them what's
behind those doors.

The lines to my face
are arrows piercing
my conscience.
I can't aim the bow
at them.

Those ignorant people.