To say my father loved Jesus
is as wrong as saying he feared him.
To him, Jesus was a landlord,
a creditor, someone owed a debt,
which, left unpaid, would end in pain,
not only justified but welcomed,
insisted upon, and in the great
tradition of the spawn of Yahweh,
pass on to children and their children,
the unwanted and unearned burden of birthright.
Good morning, says the baptist, and
slaps you on the butt. It’s time
to be fitted for your chains.
We’ve lost the will to listen,
instead expressing and expressing
without end, without impression
as if we were generators and not motors,
as if beams of reality flowed
brainless and wantless
toward – what? Tomorrow?
There is no tomorrow,
today only, in a false succession
of todays. How can there be
expression, alone and only?
There must first be an emptiness,
gradually filled with the stuff of galaxies,
or more remote still, of giant gas clouds
or invisible matter, so dark.
As luck would have it
I was born who I am,
propelled into wonder
and deep disturbance,
pushed from behind
by fear and tedium,
compelled by curiosity
to delve and burrow.
Shall I say my fate
has formed me,
or have I moved through Earth
not spellbound, but spellbinding?
No use complaining, no
point in shallow grievance.
Fate works not by force
I do read your work, telling me
to be a decent sort, which politician
to love, which to despise,
how one kind of suffering
is better than another, or one
rude remark worse than another.
The ponderance presses relentlessly,
huge pendulous images of right thinking,
until I no longer feel I own my own
uncertainty, that my heart can so much as
break without first checking your litany.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
Now I must be on my way or miss
the chance to do it again.
Between sun and rain
A steam bath.
Frogs sing their approval.