Thursday, September 29, 2011

Free Write 1, Week 5

[revised version of original post:]

"Bartholomew's Torture"

I don't know why I've allowed it to plague
me for so many years now--
the drowning expectation to carve a woman's image
into bars of cinnamon soap,

     perhaps to bathe or wash my mouth.

I don't know why I continually attempt to
rationalize a chaotic world,
perhaps to abolish the slave trade and drug cartel
     (well, maybe not the drug cartel).

I don't know how to commit--
to caress a woman's mind for longer than an hour
or two (maybe three at the most).
I don't know if her blood flows like acid rain
or hot lava, perhaps an

     exotic
     combination
          of the two.

I don't know how to love
my cat or myself or your God or myself or
my father or myself or the country or myself,

and she doesn't know how to love me, either.

I don't know why the country is falling to pieces,
while the trinity play chess with votes--
while the idle rich eat incriminating documents and
slice wrists wide open to drink the blood.

I don't know why Jerry Falwell's God hasn't eaten itself like an Ouroboros in the weeds.

I don't know why Arabic mothers praise their sons:
the infants that bench-press automatic weapson from their prams,
screaming aloud (so that all nations will bear witness),

     "Revolution!  Revolution!  Revolution!"

Yet, these same mothers piss and dance on the graves of other freedom fighters.

I don't know how to pray to God,
but--if I did know--
I wouldn't ask for
peace or money or happiness or love or
sex or love or drugs or money.
I would ask Him--It--She,
"Invisible Man in the sky,
where the hell did I park my car?"

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