May 21, 2003

• i was thirsty and he gave me drink

  
  

   

  
  

  It’s flatland and over time, a red dot takes shape on a black stripe painted conspicuous through endless fields shaded golden.  Heat rises from the radiator grill of an old Chevy pickup, shimmering upward like wet billowy cellophane.  The temperature is high as if to torment as vehicle and inhabitant bake quietly, driving through rows of wilting, tanning corn stalks.  It’s the sort of heat that leaves you lethargic and angry – temper on a short fuse but no energy to act or speak on it.  Not a day for political debate or proselytizing confrontations, each man was best left to routine, the less thinking the better.

  
  

   

  
  

  Broadcast in fourteen states, the radio screeches a sermon made to drip heavy like syrup with a southerner’s drawl.  And thus said the Lord to Jeremiah.  But it’s all just noise to a man lost in visions caught through a rearview mirror.  First, it’s his face, red and cracked with deep grooves, carved like wisdom but it’s just the elements and time.  He sees his eyes, squinting hard under the glare that bounces off the road onto his hood, burning flashing floaters under his lids.  Acres of withering crops and half-grown stalks surround him like a strange cult of merciless acolytes, coming to take his simple, weeping farmer soul.  Kicked behind him is dust.

  
  

   

  
  

  He takes a quick glance at his left-side mirror and realizes he’s missed his turn toward home.  The feckless sky is a beautiful, menacing blue.

  
  

   

  
  

  He’ll turn the car around and park at the side of the road.   He’ll feel the beating hands of a hard staring sun as he opens and slams the steel door.  In a sullen daze, he’ll grab a fallen stalk and run the brittle leaves through his fingers with a painful shook-shook and crack.  About a hundred yards from the road, he’ll wipe the sweat from a lined brow and sit to rest.  The engine is left running as the carburetor kicks.  His nostrils burn with dry air as he cools his hands under a fine layer of dirt.

  
  

  Rain falls slantwise, plowing into powdery topsoil, spitting up muddy clods.  It falls hard, heavy and for the farmer of the acreage, sweet.  Against mother’s wishes, children spill laughing from swinging screen doors, their father standing tired in the middle of soaking fields.
  
  ——————————
  
   

  
  

  ————————
  
  the mark of hands
  
  You’ve tumbled from womb
  Hung by a cord
  Floating above
  A murky mess
  Of paradigms.
  
  And so you’ll cry
  All your life,
  Wondering why you left it.
  
  A tiny fist
  Clenched with vigor
  Shaking frustrations
  At a shiny, brave world.
  
  Or maybe it’s celebration
  (Albeit confused)
  Like swinging a mug
  For auld lang syne.
  
  ———————–

  
  

  

  
  

  When it comes to the NBA, does anybody even care about the Eastern Conference?  They need to do something about that.

  
  

  Matt11:28

  • 4:56 am
  • 10 Comments