November 6, 2003

• Pie in the Sky

  
  

   

  
  

  It starts with a slow droning rumble and you feel it right in the gut.  It’s like Ebola on a Red Bull high, spreading from one cell to the next, each vibration a sign of momentary bliss, the long due comeuppance of sunlight post-rain.  It jiggles like an ocean, each wave breaking across a cold sand shore where tiny feet will pitter-patter giggling to the chase of parents, lifted high onto shoulders to see farther than before.  Or liken it to the clicking wake of channel surfers, finally settling on the local station.  And the editor paints a picture of a world gone awry, looking at you all fiery and unstable because they’re all mad.

  
  

   

  
  

  Trapped in the folding jowls of an old man laughing.

  
  

   

  
  

  Charles isn’t in charge!  And who is.  He doesn’t know what the kids are up to, staying out late, getting in trouble. 

  
  

   

  
  

  The rumbling rises like the yeast of good German lager, the canned humour foaming right to the top, built to spill but just kissing the brim.  This is repeated, marked by breaks for Depends and Pow-Pow-Power Wheels.  He spills his drink and red flannel becomes a darker flannel and where’s all the fun now?  It’s right there, laughing, all smirky confident like Hannibal and his stupid plans that always come together.  All when Face decides to jump ship and work on the Love Boat.  Liquored up, living vicariously - head tilted, eyes closed, rumpled suit for a body blanket.  Station identification giving way to a loud, vainglorious chhhh.  It’s sad.

  
  

   

  
  

  See Kaczynski nodding off

  
  

  To late night reruns

  
  

  A week before

  
  

  His flight into the hills.

  
  

   

  
  

  —————

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  ————

  
  

  no stone unturned

  
  

   

  
  

  One man

  
  

  Like Hangman

  
  

  Life in the hands of

  
  

  A bad guesser.

  
  

   

  
  

  So God is real

  
  

  And so went the

  
  

  Moon and the stars

  
  

  Rams smashing heads

  
  

  Impressing the ladies

  
  

  And yet he won’t make up

  
  

  His mind.

  
  

   

  
  

  Hale-Bopp passes a

  
  

  Smidgeon too close

  
  

  But we’re happy knowing

  
  

  Our unbilical buttons hold

  
  

  Our rears and the world

  
  

  In place:

  
  

     Like Melville’s mysterious

  
  

     Doubloon.

  
  

   

  
  

  ———-

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  Hotel Lobby (Hopper)

  
  

   

  
  

  ————

  
  

   

  
  

  Grace? 

  
  

   

  
  

  I’m not as introspective as I used to be but through all the lows and highs, grace is worth keeping fully in mind; it’s what keeps me from slipping too far as I’ve lately been pulled to do.  The pulpit’s a long ways off for me and those childhood dreams are dim but still, it’s all somewhere ahead.  Convictions may stay the same but people change and in turn, those beliefs are subject to evolving vantage points.  For now, I’m walking.

  
  

   

  
  

  Life boils down to choices and I’ve drifted a bit from the bedrock ideals that’ve always kept me in line.  Yet, I’m in a good spot and with lots of ambition and a simple faith, I’m hoping for the best of lives.  But the thought of seeds falling among thorns comes to mind – the worries of this world and the pursuit of wealth smothering the life and purpose out of men. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Think too much and you’re left dressed all nice with nothing much to show for it.  So, I smartly salute and move on, hoping to make God and Teddy Roosevelt (It is not the…) proud.  It really is grace in the end.

  
  

   

  
  

    Matt11:28

  • 6:12 pm
  • 20 Comments