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.

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