This wiki page story is a [little flag] (Plotmeister) production.
Peace out.
+ Comments Appreciated +


Return to index Penguins in a Bottle


G's


1.

We hoard. Gold grudges guilt grief grace-
less grandeur. This heaping pile of G's.
God? A pretend G. Some other letter masquerading.
Impostor intruder intellectually--- anesthetized.
Don't include God in this particular leaning pile
of worthless treasure in our dragoncave hearts.
Someone might mistake you for his prophet and
we all know the unpleasant sting of ripe crucifixions.

2.

"Take up your cross," he says. YOURS.
But the martyr carries nothing of his own.
His very breath belongs to heaven's whim.
Our very souls are not us--are we only for our trials?

Christ could not have made his Cross Himself, could He?
The definition of humanity is to be the in the power of
others, to give oneself over, willingly involuntarily,
the dark dawn of eradication, denial, implausible
perfectibility. The delicate balance between
judge and juror--

Caution. Who fashioned the cross of Christ? Insert
all the usual destined spontaneous Will and Fate crises
here. It was our trees, some say. Possession = illusion, of
course. Do not all things belong to God? Free things are not
possessed. But forget the green leafys. We have further poses
to affect and ridicule.

--Selfsame. O peerless jurors full of pious proclamation,
will our death erase your conscience? Here, sacrificed
on the altar of your dearly beloved arrogance, the lines
between us blur and falter. Give in. Give up. And awake,
from philosophic daydreams on these piles of G's--

(O, WOE for crucified us!)

--such petty demands that hold us here are
not so hard-ly iron-tipped as Roman centurions'
jabbing spearpoints or flashy strutting
(and more dull-witted.) Bloody nails; the strength
of iron                       corrupted.


We Roman heirs, pride modest under humblecloak.

3.

Cloistered away in the cell of our self-demands,
the rusted irons of our self-love nail our hands
and feet to wooden sins. Vertical crossroads, the
eternal question mark of choice, destiny,
the indecisive traveler. Would-be salvation.
Salve. Sanitized solutions? say it ain't so,
darling, Say It Ain't So.

Quite. Ours, this wooden would-be,
is not the cross of Christ, though garrulous
and gallant in the mouths of likewise future
"crossroad saints;" here is no Francis, Saul or John.
Give greatness. Do not confuse confusion
(gold-in caves, hoards of saved-up salvation)
with veiled, failed, visions of the various G’s. Geez.

Our crosses are not his.
His will not ours. But in these similar wooden
shapes (become our postures, piquant "perchance!"s
poignant posturing, perpetual pestering "NON POSSONO!")
something of divinity threatens revelation to our
weary, staggering hearts.



Peace.