God laughs at me
he knows that I see more than I let on
that I say less than I should despite always talking

and I do talk

to those who would not choose to be accountable for their gifts
to myself loudly and with ripped clothes
in a language foreign to my own tongue once released in suspension

he knows how to place decisions in front of me that i am all too ready to reconcile
but on my terms not his, a cyclical moral flaw in my scientific method

if April is the cruelest month than how much more different could January be or June or September
in a world where water and language remain undevined or diverted

as a muted soul working a garden long since dead
roses painted red for a time not yet arrived
a half life placed with an architect's eye, bolstered by gin
and nor more valid than if a flood would have chosen the same design

I tell God that I understand and he refuses to believe me
instead he asks "who have you helped today with the talents I have given you?"
and "what have you done today outside of killing your garden?"

is there an adequate answer

"where are you pushing yourself past the point of comfort
do you love unconditionally
do you drive people to tears with words of uncomfortablenss
those very words I have given you for the world to digest
not those arrogant words you pass off as knowledge to an audience you have hand-picked

and I have given you choices, tough choices, choices to wake up the sleeping
to place you past the comprehension of time and continuum

with no manual to reference
I have ended your days of wealth and desire to save you from death at your own hands

this is not redemption
no, that is not earned nor even sorted until the day we meet face to face
and you can account for how you molded the clay I have given you

and you are a sculptor

do you cry any more
do you visit my word for more than an out-of-context comment to make yourself
look smarter or more in touch with me
i will decide that, when and how, if and where and at a time you will not determine

you know that even as you create your own luck, my luck
it is my path that you stumble through like child taking steps along a couch
that the trajectory to your future lies in the guts of pigs in trenches, machine gun fire overhead
tracers in the light and sounds too fast for your reactions to negotiate

where faith is a rock in your shoe discovered on a ledge of stone and scrub with no hands to remedy
would the blood you shed be adequate enough for trumpets to blow
would Jericho fall
would children and the weary listen if not paid or shackled

what is your answer"

today, I passed a homeless woman on the street, her hands covered in soil and scars
as she looked into my eyes I gave her the only comfort I could at the time
and understood just how far I have to go to be as wealthy as she is.

01/22/2011

Posted on 01/22/2011
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