Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.
Standing on the front porch of an empty house listening to the lullabies sung by humming car tires on the road to Bethlehem, mother- stepfather- Holy Spirits and donkeys, all serenading the unborn fetus of a God wholly other than what we seek to find.
I am the neighbor’s pouncing cat strung out on nip and bud and mulled berry-wine, enticed by trinkets dangling like mistletoe on the laden, frozen boughs arching over cathedral spires.
Washed granite path stones line the way to the garden, trodden down by strangers’ soles and graveyard bones, clickity-claking sounding depths of untold sorrows.
Who snipped the coupon desireables I was saving for a rainy day— or tomorrow— they seem to fall on the same calendar dates circled with overdue bills paper clipped to the ignored, artsy photo of a snow covered house, picturesque scenes of surreal, yet conceivable, ideal settings for place-mat confetti?
Caught myself slipping away beneath barnyard shards to a sleep in Afghani caves, booby-trapped and encased in ash from the last cowardly drone missile strike taking the lives of 9 year old Aisha, Ahmeds, and expatriot Joe.
We all passed through the chasm with a serendipity in our step, lost somewhere between the end and spaces separating the word from the book.
God bless it, the truth of the matter is my life should have ended in a train, bursting into flames, dividing our sight in fear of spotted farmland wasted in seconds of lovely sprouts- destined for more than a midday stew bubbling on a stove eye, steaming breath of oblivion.
Traced lines in newspapers where I saw the face of James Joyce scoffing at my faux-philosophizing consciousness, streaming further than movie scripts and ecstatic jeers scribbled on beer-soaked bar napkins that carelessly tumbled to the sawdust floorboard.
I can’t leave the bedside nightstand ornamented in white ruffles and tarot cards spelling out my fate– that I have to say goodbye and kiss your pale lifeless cheek, reposing saintly, slender fingers intertwined clenching my last letter finally telling you of my dirty, lust driven obscenities, postmarked with benzedrine saliva and weary thumbs.
Torches tied to fox tails incinerating wheat fields where we first met that late October evening, I was thrashing chaff and you were gleaning dreams behind combines who were circumventing crop circle mirages of God and death and sex.
There is nothing I can do, pleading to icons and graven images to forgive my faults, to forget my seeds sown in grounds plowed by failures of the past and cups of coffee not yet consumed.
Bridging the Ecclesial, the Academic, and the Political
"Surely I am more stupid than any man, And I do not have the understanding of man. Neither have I learned wisdom. But, the knowledge of the Holy One--that I know." Proverbs 30:2-3
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from Morgan Bradham
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.