Your Suffering Is A Poem To Me

Days go by like wild horses. Never enough time.
Never enough.
To do what?
What is it that requires so much time?
Then, sitting on the back porch playing guitar
With all the time in the world.
The time of the song being somehow outside of time.
The sun setting.
The Austin stars through the bare branches of the trees.
Maybe paint a mural on the walls of the garage.
Something no one will ever see.
Maybe a cathedral of twigs,
Spending all my time with the fuckbug worshippers,
Thundering above them:
"Can't you fuckers see that I am building you
A Goddamned cathedral!
Now get in line! Repent Ye Insects!"
And then delivering the fiery sermon amongst the twigs
Where, at the height of my argument,
Crushing the cathedral,
Destroying all those that have gathered within,
Wailing with the Terrible Voice of the Lord:
"Your suffering is a poem to me.
What you call thinking is just laughter.
I am the Lord, your God!"
Then stomp around the backyard
In a storm of leaves and sticks.
Yes, there is time for this.
There is plenty of time for this.
And, later, cool again under the stars,
Singing quietly to the wrecked and wretched faithful
About God's Skull and God's Bones.
Ah, you should've seen it...
The bones of an enormous beast out there in the Desert.
Can you imagine what once was?
When there was a center?
When the sparrow and the star both fell under constant gaze?
We can not even imagine such a time.
Our days:
Just sad beasts standing in the sun.

December 2005