Lost

so I wake up one day
and think
I ain’t really liking this gig
man, I mean the whole thing
is about being really good
at something
and competing
to be the best.
I mean, I ain’t really
good at nothing.
Not like them.

used to be
we just lived
in the woods
in a cabin
on the hill
by the creek
and grew our own food
and made our own clothes
well… most of them
and traded for very
little.
We were fine.

no television
no indoor toilet
no electric juice
no power lines
no barbed wire
no pavement
and all that mess
Not even a radio.

man, it was
good then
but we didn’t know it
and had to get out
and go get what everyone
else had
and now we have
it
and I am

Lost.

Normal days are like this:  

Darkness is turned to light.
The blind receive their sight.
Wrongs are made right.
Yes, normal days are like this,

but few of us are amazed.

Here is what happens:  We become accustomed to the miraculous and lose the magic.
Life becomes just another day, another dollar, another trip south.  Another, "Who cares?"

Here is what happens:  Those who are most precious to us become our enemies.
Those to whom we owe the most, we treat the worst.
Checking the news is more urgent than the voice of a child wanting to play.
Answering e-mail is more important than saying, “I love you.”

We begin to disappear, long before death overtakes us.  We become cogs in the machine,
zombies rolling out of bed, consumers of plastic toys and throw-away containers.
Our big concern is gas mileage. Our main ambition is money in the bank.
Our over-riding emotion is fear… for we cannot face the reality of our non-existence.  

Happy hour is God on Sunday. This is what happens to the best of us.  

Perhaps someone tries to warn us, but we scold them, we chastise them;
They must be silenced, status quo is the way to go, it's always been done like this.
We shut them away quickly so that their disturbing ideas are silenced. No one visits them.
The guards become infected and must be replaced.
They get early retirement, or are given other positions of promise,
in return for their silence.

Shhhhh. No one must know.

Nothing is sacred.  We want sanitary preachers in clean suits and not too bold ties.
We will gladly give them our money, if they continue to leave us alone.  Let us wilt and die.
Some of them become show-men. This is a helpful diversion.
A room full of imposters can hide the Truth and allow us to believe our chosen lie.
We can pretend that all lunacy is equal.  We need not listen with our hearts, our cold hearts.  
We are safe from wisdom here.  We have money and highways and malls.
We have universities and basketball and cheerleaders.

I write this to warn you. You are not safe. The Lion is loose. Your life is at stake.

You may be asked to be kind to a stranger—the one with unclean hands.
You may be asked to visit the prisoner,
tend the sick,
give your belongings to the poor,
even deny yourself…and not just on Sundays only.

Beware. The time is soon upon us. The hour is near.
The Master cometh….Even at the door.

You see…normal days are like this:  

Darkness is turned to light.
The blind receive their sight.
Wrongs are made right.

And hardly anyone is amazed.

it's not my job, and it's not my money.

this house does not belong to me.

these children are not mine,

they were not made

by me.

you are not mine and I

am not yours.

the television, the refrigerator, the sofa

are but things. not my things. not yours.

just things.

the dog is not mine, the cat is not mine

the sky is not mine, the earth is not mine.

nothing remains with me, but me.

these are my thoughts.

this is my opinion.

this is my day to be

me.

Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.

The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.

Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."

But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.

I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.

Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.