To Believe in God
To believe in God
Means to look at the world
It is to picture
Infinite spinning galaxies
Swirling in space,
Particles infinitly small
Building everything you know,
By forces you cannot see, hear, or control
And be filled with wonder
Because it is so amazing
And beautiful and infinite,
Yet created and controlled
By a God
That is bigger than the infinite
And He loves you.
He knows you
And He loves you
And He died for you.
Fickle ol' Fortune came to say
that she had made plans to walk away
as in the other way I planned to walk
"Please don't make this awkward and call just to 'talk'."
Well I never much cared for the luxurious tyrant,
"Fine by me, I travel light, I'll become a vagrant!"
Shrugging my shoulders and lifting my pack,
I set out, still dreaming, 'bout nothing I lacked.
Mamzer and Rim Shots
My midwife days and nights are over, for I can never surpass this evening. Our Almighty did not make a magic universe. He made the rules and then He followed the rules. To pull this off, someone flawless was needed, someone spotless and unOriginal. And what was needed was a scapegoat, a carpenter, an altruist who could withstand the blame and the shame. Mamzer!
Oh, and a donkey, too. And a little drummer boy. Pa rum pum pum pum.
Three centimeters: the contractions began subtly, then built, then consumed. There were no drugs back then, no epidurals, no fetal heart monitoring, no NICUs, no blood banks. What happened simply happened, triumphant or disastrous.
Four centimeters: the most significant person lay in utero, suffering the slings and arrows of mammalian reproduction.
Five centimeters: each contraction stifled each of His breaths within. A rhythm of destiny, peaks and valleys of amortized oxygen debt.
Six centimeters: His crown was compressed, over and over, symbolizing the ones all would failingly attempt to place on His head. She cried out with each pang, huffed, puffed, survived each, basking in the momentary respite before the next. The burning juggernaut of pressure trying to kick open the door.
What could go wrong? A DNA mismatch? An arrest in ontogeny? Faulty implantation? Toxemic host? And blood? Abrupt abruption? Don't even speak to me about spilled blood!
Seven centimeters: she no longer sees the periphery, the crowd, the expectants. She only sees within. And lives for each respite.
Eight centimeters: her brow sweats, her teeth gnash--pain so bad. Bad enough to doubt accepting an invitation from God Himself. RSVP.
Nine centimeters: a deluge flows, and the Passenger readies to divide the sea. Is this normal? Pa rum pum pum pum.
Ten centimeters: the only crowning that He will ever have. I stand ready. I stand honored to do the one thing I was born to do. The universe watches me. Time and space come together as one, in communion with all that was, is, and ever will be. I feel the eyes of the Big Bang drill me with expectations.
I am the only one who lays hands on Him, the ironic gesture that He will use on others later. I eye the myrrh. She will need it. Will someone stop that infernal drumming? Little drummer boy, leave us! We don't need that. Get him out, for God's sake!
Ra pum pum pum...
He is here, in my lap, and I dry Him. He is blue. Oh, my God, my God is blue. And cold. And evilly inert! I tap his soles. Hard, harder, harder yet. My finger whisks out his mouth. The universe doubts me. I doubt me. Should I fail, then what?
He gasps. I can see in his eyes He is amazed. He breathes in the liquor of atmosphere, satisfying a first hunger. He lives! The stars and planets that have aligned shine on us.
Placentation ends and I discard His previous life according to the traditions. Madonna and child bond as the oxytocin surges and the prolactin delivers. They won't be needing me to stay as His wet nurse. I refuse my fee. As if I could accept! I stagger off. It's been a long night for me. Oh, and her. And the universe.
As I wander, I wonder: why not magic? Why not a placement on top of the society, in command of legions? Why not perch the most important Person--the handshake between Man and God--where He deserves? He gambled an only child on ancient, reckless, faulty, and dangerous midwifery, at the mercy of random physiology and vulnerable to complications I could never remedy. Why take such tremendous chances with such a tremendous birth? It is an unnerving truth that I come to realize:
He took a chance on us before we were asked to take a chance on Him.
It's only fair that One follow the rules One establishes. Don't do to others what you are not willing to do yourself. I wandered and wondered more. Was it all for us?
Is there anything He could gain by going our way before we were asked to go His? Yes! An almighty, all-knowing omnipotency can indeed garner something new. What a thing to contemplate--that He could learn something new. But He did. He began that night. That night an almighty, all-knowing omnipotency did something He could never do on His own.
He experienced wonder.
Wonder is in the mind of the beholder. When all speak of the gifts the Child gave us, we should all appreciate the gift we gave to Him.
Wonder. The only thing we could give to complete Him.
Midnight, and the whispers begin.
Only because a life full of sin.
You hear the echoes in your head.
While you still sit there and listen to the dead.
"Do. it.", They tell you
"I see you", they say
While you just sit there.
And you wither away.
The Portals open and they come crawling through.
If they can get to me, they can get you too.
hearts can be rendered
into hasty, untidy quarters
and takers salvage
portions from here
but the soul
Trend Slave, who are you?
Some people forget
They have their own originality
They follow the crowd so much
Afraid to go against the grain
Afraid to wear red when everyone else is wearing black
That they smile and applaud anyone all the time
And when asked why, they say:
Such a pity to be a trend slave.
Tear and bite
Leaving behind bare bones
Sprouting up new life
Lick old wounds
Healing with sunny delight
Float to the ground
Carpeting the earth
Fluff and Stuff
Here I sit in a pile of junk,
no one to talk with as I lay on my bunk,
thinking of people stinking,
with their high and mighty thought,
no different from me,
no, not special at all.
But I remember a day,
when I was King of the Hill,
my chest puffy
with boldness so rare,
as I fought off the attackers
to take away my throne,
as I huffed and puffed
to hold onto my own.
And in a flash the boy stumbled,
fell to the bottom and never got up,
he was the last of the hoard that fell away,
but here I sit in all this junk,
remembering that one who fell,
and buried six feet under,
that much closer to hell.
I keep saying it was an accident,
but my greed to hold on was vast,
and not about to give way for anything.
My thoughts are fluffy like a cloud gone crazy,
my feelings are swollen, almost puffy,
that I cannot breath at times.
It was my fault.
this whole poem is nothing but fluff,
and other twisted things and stuff.
Hence, I walk away,
not giving a damn,
it was the best that I could do,
but never let it be said,
that all stuff is fluff.
George Carlin might get upset.