Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Voices

It was. Cold complete. And dominant. Like yesterdays we had spit on and polished. Abbreviated epiphanies. Solid. And stubborn. With the flowers of spring.

Dancing on the fingernails of withering gods. Music in the background. Prostitutes on their arms. The cost when you're this close to heaven is hard to calculate. The price of this flesh isn't in weights, but rather in how. I don't know what they want. Don't know what I have.

We waste hours discussing. The existence. The plausibility of omnipotence. We draw our pictures on the heads of pins. To prove. The small is significant. I search the stars. For any indication. That I can be heard. By these deaf old men. That would claim to know. How hard it is.

I wait for a dialogue. Some explanation. Time ricochets. Comes back again. Like an echo. Of so many absent saviors.

She insists god is close. That he listens. She says. he can read our lips. But that he waits for the words to be spoken.

Friday, March 5, 2010

It Is

You wouldn't say it's hard. Nor that it's easy. Just that it is. There. Humming under your skin. A lugubrious drum beat without an end. Spiders and their many webs. Toiling in the corners of our deception.

The birds on the grass. The worms in their beaks. You wouldn't say its wrong. Nor that it's right. Just that it is.

The girl. The window caressing her cheek. As she looks for an opening in the glass. The moon not penetrating. The sun just as weak. But the darkness. Oh the darkness. It always finds a way in.

She can't say it's wrong. Nor that it's right. She can only say is that it is.