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.
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.