& EACH MORNING IS CO-MORBID,
SHEETS ARE SOAKED WITH SWEAT
and wound tight around my waist as though the Jackal headed priest
appeared and wrapped me for forever, yet to come
For some it is a garden where buxomly women attend to each care
For some it’s a Mansion, high as Babel, wrong as can be,
The ziggurats are anthills to Yahoo, the God of Storms,
Or Yahweh who sometimes speaks from
Within a whirling thunderstorm
To scorn the would be judgers who,
Would judge the bailiff, not the fool
Who sinned against the laws of men
The laws of God and was brought in
Read the charge the Herald called,
The dead man entered in the hall.
The ceilings high were white as a lie
as hollow as hello
as pale as goodbye;
The congregation sat in waiting for the Heretic to make it,
That he might reproach,
The Lord of Hosts, Elohim, the God of the World,
The fire is Free,
The fire that as a finger wrong on the marble he wrote
The mitzvot on;
And it was said if we behaved we’d have our own lot in the shade,
And if it would not come for us, not in this life, surely it must,
Be beyond the threshold of dawn on the other side of silence glittering on
But I doubt beyond the shout that rises fast and faster fades on out;
The gnashing of teeth is saved for the beast,
Not for the agnostic scholar who grinds his teeth,
In speculation if there’s God or Heaven in the Whole of Oz,
And if there isn’t there could be a people just as loving just as free;
The secret is there is no need, no need for the throne of Elohim;
They kept his footstool in Zion, and set the rules they relied on;
And Hilel said hell, I’m write, you’ll see;
The Heavens themselves will agree with me!
And just at the time came undeniable signs,
Of the power of God with Hilell;
And his friends, with a laugh, held to their stomachs and gassed,
Has it not been said that as we grew, we’d take on reason and make do,
With our own dealings without,
The L-rd himself to help us out.
And Surely any God would be,
Happy to have such children as these;
Who’d rather with reason work out the meaning
Than blindly follow the lights
The lights may tantalize and mesmerize but lead one into knee-deep lies;
And the dreams of Jinah are just thieves that steal away the yet warm eve;
Life is what we got and that is more than enough to get on with in fact,
So I think that never was so proud,
The man who reaped his harvest watered by the sweat of his brow;
And never was a son so contented that,
He asked his dad if he could be alone and sat,
To ponder the multiform this-and-that,
The puzzle They put before the rats.
brandon the writer | author & staff writer for sir swag 