May 07, 2009


(by me)

Here it comes;
questions loiter
in the space between
the asking and the telling,
halting speech and worthwhile listening.

In that place,
rubbed raw of surety,
even the question in question
is not safe from the rape of doubt.

Why this question, God, and not another?
Why a mockery of faith waving the banner
of truth like a head on a pike, a
sheepskin nailed to a cross?

Why, why,
why the uncertainty
of shaking, finite limbs upon a rock
seeming invisible? If I can't trust rock
(once so solid and sure)...

then what?

Is there a
before-world, a behind-world? Foundation beneath
the flaking skin of containment
in a body made of eyes
and ears and fingers questing?
Well? Is there?

Oh before, before, my kingdom for a before…

Before the question, before the rhyme
and the mime of self-assurance in the
drifting lives of drones in the hive
who, unknowing, lost all hope
for soul’s thrive.

Before the dead languages and their children.
Before the need for tongues and lungs and
exhalation of air to lend consequence
to an old knowledge, quiet and sure.

Before the age of man’s rage and his
construction of the cage of hate and

Before, before, my soul cries for before…

Is this worth the answering, God,
worth the hearing?
And has any of it ever meant
a thing beyond the air I breathe
in my immediate need for a life
lived in increments and greed?

(And has any of it ever meant a thing?)

So it is
God, finally spoken.
My questions fall
                         and in
to the ocean's floor,
granules of sand awaiting their pearldom.

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