End times come on fast,
Victory is a camp just like hope,
Eel-like, the oil slick undulates along the coast until it’s nothing more than a public t.v. special...
Right and left merge into a single, very special interest,
Yet we still ask all the wrong questions, still want the right and fast-acting answers, those
illusory, fleeting bits and pieces of insight…
Over a ravaged earth a half-dead god presides,
Never once blinking and ever convinced of his self-given right to stand in judgment,
Calling every slinking slug by its name,
the name he gave it by mistake, by drunken stumbling mistake,
Ending the name-calling in gibberish gabbled too easily for repetition…
Inimical concerns stand in uneasy relation to each other,
Never to reconcile and understanding only that singularly expressed fact…
Absolute stands the verdict upon our works,
the pronouncement ends no debate, lets the argument rage on…
While stiffly the bent-backed peasant walks forth to his patch of bluegrass,
Heather sways in the gentle, sun-kissed wind, somewhere, somehow,
Immeasurable distances get crossed in an instant –
so that I can take you in my arms,
not these arms, but better ones,
hold you close until we both are free,
Loving each other as completely as god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son,
Each the better for not understanding the maelstrom any better than we did before
any contemplation started.
End. Rev1 26 October 2010, 9.16 pm.
© David Mark Speer, Brooklyn
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