The Second Cross on the Hill

The Second Cross on the Hill

As I feel the sweet heat race thru my syringe
It’s Me I find
Nailed to the Second Cross on the Hill
Seems my angels all have amnesia
Seems all blessings have been spilled
Now wait a minute boy
Said the Rebels of routine
Just clean our sinful shoes of their dirty soles
There are no carpetbaggers
That followed Vietnam
Just Apocalyptic angels
On parole

I have a heavy head filled with broken promises
A backseat bolero built in my brain
I have pieces of an old torn up Valentine
A nightmare of falling...falling down a dirty drain
There’s no innocence left from
The slick and shifty 50’s
Tangled and twisted
Like an Appalachian still..
There are too many crows in the field today
I see them all clearly from
The Second Cross on the Hill

Now balanced on the fault line and camouflage desire
You can’t see as I do from that political windowsill
I smell the burning sugar in your Apostle spoon
Up high from
The Second Cross on the Hill

Now I’ve lost my shadows and my anesthesia’s gone
Transient lovers leave my heartbeat
Bruised and scraped..
It seems like my angels have all abandoned me
There’s little left to salvage or now even to save

Now I look down at my arm -- see a highway of veins
Stretching from fragments poked and drilled
If I could peel away my skin and step out as a ghost
I’d do it like my father from
The Second Cross on the Hill

I scrape dreams off the floor of my memories
Where roses and moonshine stipulate:
That odor that you’re wearing must be from your lies
It tries to use self-righteousness as bait
So you wear a cloth of wrinkles to conceal hate n’ pride
Time to clean the plate your mother always fills
The way you hold your head may betray saintly eyes
At home at last on
The Second Cross
On the Hill

Next time you won’t taste the tainted hint of danger
Oh no -- next time you won’t taste the bitter pill 
Daffodils bend as you walk with Anarchy
Even summer blooms bright beneath
The Second Cross on the Hill

Now genuflecting hypocrites are always plenty
Visiting on holidays like children of a poison vine
Pantomime priests bless the silent majority
And render all Hail Mary’s – void and benign

Barking ushers pass a full plate of thorns
Ravens perch on skeleton trees to await the kill
Somewhere down below is an honest man
Waiting for his turn on
The Second Cross on the Hill

Now wait a minute boy
Said the Rebels in the street
Just clean our sinful shoes of their dirty soles 
There are no devils and demons in Columbine
Just a sad silent sunset for young lost souls

There are a thousand downtown lives...
Lying in the dust of a New York prayer...
Restless in a room at the Survival Hotel
Some day’s we wear our thorns close to our brow and
It’s good – yes, it’s good
It’s good to be scared

Now pray for the broken ghosts of the penniless wilds
Somewhere the sun sets on dreams unfulfilled
Such is yours now to offer brave open palms
For your own lonely turn on…
The Second Cross on the Hill
The Second Cross on the Hill




WORDS: JOHN APICE
C-Copyright- Registered House of Apice - April 21st 2002 – December 2nd 2009