Too Ill to Title

Picture by Leonid Mamchenkov, Creative Commons License

Lord, I’ve been in 100% cotton pajama

Pants and shoddy emotions for three days.

My temperature sky-rocketed. My bed-sheets

Soaked salty around my lower-back and

Faux-chest. I’ve hacked liked a cat

In a Sarah McLachlan commercial and

Demanded my wife’s lap while

Our pugs snored beneath her bosom.

Seriously, are You still dishing out saucers

Of relief to Your un-strays? Have I become

The prodigal’s brother being all-like,

“Say, Pops, think You could slice me

Off a piece of that happy calf?”

I need a deep breath that doesn’t play

My lungs like a xylophone

In a pageant talent show.

On a brighter note (betcha didn’t see

That coming from this disposition

You bequeathed unto me from ____’s side

Of the family!), this weekend,

I consumed two John Carpenter

Flicks, finished a Kurt Vonnegut

Novel, and read seven George Saunders’

Stories from his early years. Looks like

I’m learning the naughty art of narration

So I can oust everyone I’ve ever known!

But, okay, if I’ve learned anything from these greats

(not to mention that insufferable Apostle Paul)

It’s that the true and just and lovely are most worthy

Of examination, even via process of exposing

Such opposites. Sickness illuminates healing.

Mourning loss exalts shared joy.

An incorrect comma, in a sentence sticks, out

Like a runny egg, in a Cobb salad.

I know it. The greats know it. You know it.

Your thumbprint in their fingers press against

Pencils and keys – Your hoorah keeps cover in their

Under-perceived belief systems. They’re always

Striking out against something / someone not knowing

They’re striking the front door of Home.

Insufferable Paul says, “Be thankful in ALL circumstances.”

What did he know? But I’ll give it a try, so here goes:

Lord, I am thankful for three days to move

Outside my camp as little as possible, except

Through the images and sentences of three

Prodigal sons. They brought home secrets.

Visions. Various lives dangling in various balances

Like organic carrots bound and not bagged

Beneath the produce section’s rain machine.

Prophets, all of them, wrecked by notions

Of brevity and crisis and questions –

As well as some veil shrouding such reverses.

Thanks for ripping the veil. I see You

Through their eyes even if they do not know

They see You.

Tomorrow’s Monday.

So alright. I’ll take another day wheezing like

My pug’s worst enemy if it pleases You . . .

If only there, as they’ve shown, I could find

A combination of words for hope

No one has heard before.

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