Vanity


Image

Understanding you is not,
contrary to your incessant belief
the sole purpose of my existence
You are whatever you are,
while I, without pause, accept this
If I were to assume a constant analysis of you
and the things you do
as my pre-ordained purpose for existing
I would as soon take the sharpest of razors
and pass it with pleasure
one-eighth inch deep across my gullible throat
Your vanity exhausts me
Is there not a moment within any given day
wherein your every waking thought
is directed toward anything, or anyone, other than yourself?
If not, then tell me, do you ever grow weary
of unceasingly caressing the image of yourself,
as even lust-crazed men tire of their indiscriminate seductions
of faceless women?
Don’t you ever lie spent after
a consuming bout of self-adoration?
Here, then, is my ardent hope and prayer for you
May you love yourself only to the measure
that others may, perchance
find in the smoldering remnants of your self-delight
a crumb or two left over
upon which to nourish their love for you as well

 

We Are Gods


gods-love

We are gods treading boldly
upon a blue-green marble
beneath a sprinkle of stars,
tossed upon a blue-black canvas.
We blow creation, like a kiss,
from open palms, fingers spread
like the wings of a butterfly;
dreamers who paint visions
upon the granite walls of time.
We whisper songs to angels
while dancing upon mountaintops.
We tread upon the oceans
in wooden shoes with billowing sails.
We laugh and cry with equal measure,
pouring our emotions into silver cups
bejeweled with love and compassion.
We embrace the hour of life we are given
but rejoice in the infinity that follows
and the lifting up of fallen loved ones.
We are gods who sing and speak
with honey on our tongues
the endless verse of truths
and seek a simple understanding
that guides our celestial journey.

We are blood-soaked warriors
who have slain our brothers and sisters
in the name of false religions
for He that stays His healing hand
amidst our pain and suffering;
for He that weeps into the clouds
that rain upon our crimson sins
and washes clean our inequities.
We are gods who daily feast
upon the abundance of our fortune
while the world’s children
wither on the vine and fall like
rotting fruit upon the earth;
flowers that never fully blossomed.
We stop our diamond-pierced ears
to the screaming of poverty and injustice
and look directly into the sun
to blind ourselves to the horror
that stretches upon the horizon.
We are gods without wings
falling from grace and into
the waiting arms of Death.
We have wrapped ourselves in
the burial shroud of indifference.

Immodest Modesty


lucy

I am chastened by my own diffidence
humbled by my modesty and proud of
my own shy reserve. No one can touch
the depths of my self-deprecation, nor
measure the breadth of my charitable
heart. I am the king of paupers and the
meekest of the mighty; who then shall
match me sacrifice for sacrifice? I am
stealthy in spirit and mild in manner.
I am the best of the least and properly
pious. I should be highly recognized
for eschewing any recognition, for I am
uniquely unassuming and insanely
inconspicuous. People sing praises
about my passionate poverty and in my
retiring regality, I demur. I am me,
as modest as can be.

 

Vanity


Understanding you is not, contrary to your incessant belief, the sole purpose of my existence. You are whatever you are, while I, without pause, accept this. If I were to assume a constant analysis of you and the things you do as my pre-ordained purpose for existing, I would as soon take the sharpest of razors and pass it with pleasure one-eighth inch deep across my gullible throat.
Your vanity exhausts me. Is there not a moment within any given day wherein your every waking thought is directed toward anything, or anyone, other than yourself? If not, then tell me, do you ever grow weary of unceasingly caressing the image of yourself, as even lust-crazed men tire of their indiscriminate seductions of faceless women? Don’t you ever lie spent after a consuming bout of self-adoration?
Here, then, is my ardent hope and prayer for you: May you love yourself only to the measure that others may, perchance, find in the smoldering remnants of your self-delight a crumb or two left over upon which to nourish their love for you as well.