They Got the God I Want

24 Mar

[Or, Gotta Learn to Get Happy Along the Way]

“you can have all the diamonds, you can have all the gold
but someday you’re still gonna get old
you gotta learn to get happy along the way”
—Langhorne Slim

“God loves you.”
—lots of people

“God loves me.”
—lots more people

“I’m fascinated, not in love.”


anger and bitterness. this is me at you God. because you could still be a figment—even a good figment. maybe a Dad who left. or did I leave? your message has been sent out and I proclaim it, but who do I fight for, speak of, love? when you don’t know your lover, is that not a farce? a dark mockery, malicious and absent, stricken and running. ?

is it… what?
what do I seek?
if it’s you I’ll
find I’m still
not sure.

but their faces on you, with you, of you—I can’t deny wanting love, but you and me had a rough start; patch it up? it’s been a slow leak long time coming—if I’d stop sticking nails in it we might have a shot. only problem is this bag is burning a hole in my pocket. stress relief, you understand. that puncture pop! and gentle hiss.

those words, yes.
the man, yes.
the concepts and
catechism, sure.
what is it to
love and suffer
and love?

wrapped in bed with a strangler; so scaly and thick. smooth like a lover’s leg. why give that up? coiled and safe it’s a long, black limousine to whisk me away.

but wait.
no I want
to figure it out
but it’s not head stuff
rather a mathematical chaos
that confuses and
strips me
of anything
remotely my own…

I could say it’s my struggle or stumbling block or lucky break or lovechild but to say anything is back to the cerebral and back to that highway segment I’ve driven ruts into. silence is in order like a pardon. but I’m calling on a governor who isn’t known for benevolence. who has probable cause against my criminal self. my head may be split by morning and it’s me who will have dropped the blade. Soft pillow, hold me until I dry out and you are my red red accomplice. and Victim.

so hopeless am I
am I?

there isn’t an answer today. just the deal, there’s no catch. my marionette strings cut and I’m to life! But streets are dangerous for a wooden puppet. I left an arm back at Crawford and Douglass splintered but worn smooth by iron-tires. so is it wasted by my map and hat and little red wagon? the applications in my little, wooden hand, the cherry shoes on my feet. they were dancing shoes it said on the package. but my feet don’t move but down the sidewalk in the direction I got turned around.

silly silly silly
move, my feet! move!
you can waddle or jump
duck or kangaroo rat,
pregnant or scaredy-cat
just go! go!
move! dance!
you can!
we have enough exclamation points!
yes! hope!
cotton candy growing up from the ground!
ecstatic electricity!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: