I woke up this morning to noises,
cars, a refrigerator, TV,
and I felt empty,
fear and dread poured into my empty shell.
I'm tired of listening to men who've read books,
books by men who read books,
by men who read books.
The monotonous drone of idealists,
arguing with idealists with ideas
by other idealists.
Unoriginal blabber
and outright lunacy,
telling the free man how to be chained,
blocking out sunlight,
restricting our branches.

Cold beer fills a chilled mug
The crackle of tobacco , the creak
of a rocker , the croon of crickets ,
Alabamas distant thunder* ...

Deer run in brown grass , water bugs strike
the porch light , cars hum along the distant highway ,
cicadas foretell the shroud of night ...

Clocks become amplified , ceiling fans -
tickle door chimes
Drab curtains brush plastered walls , dry
corn fields trill , crackle and moan

The final slurp of Michelob as -
someones trash crawls down a forgotten country road ...

Me! I! Myself! Mine!

I shout these words in militant exertion,
Demanding people to stop,
Commanding them to hear,
Ordering their full, undivided, worshipful attention.

"Am I not the centre of the universe!? Listen to ME!" I scream,
And sulk like an angry child as the world continues on,
Unperturbed, unaltered, un-adoring,
Without even noticing my voice.

If no one else will pay me heed,
Then I, at least, must do so.
So I worship my own image,
And prostrate myself before the alter of my self conceit.
I sing my own praises to my own ear,
And ******* myself to myself
in a vain attempt to satisfy my undying vanity.

Oh, you vainglorious *******!
Made illegitimate by the illegitimacy of your false worship
And the hypocrisy of your heart.
Do you not know, you were made to kneel? Fashioned to bow,
Not to your own image, but before the visage if Him Who made you in His own likeness
That you might bear within yourself the most sacred cartouche,
The most precious signet,
The most holy seal.

For you have been called to higher things than this broken clay vessel you defile with your adulterous worship.
Oh, you conceited fool!
Puffed up in your own pride,
Unaware of how utterly worthless you have made yourself.

And yet your Maker still stoops from Heaven
To hear your piteous moans,
And His heart weeps to see your self-inflicted wounds.

Thus He reaches down
And whispers His deepest Love to you
While you are yet gleefully drowning in your sin.

So unaware are you of anything but fleshly gratification.
But He touches you,
When you least expect it.
Like pearls discovered in a dung heap,
He surprises you with the Treasure of His Grace.
And with the tenderness of His Loving touch,
Lifts you from your mire and whispers in your ear:

"Oh, my Little Worm, I am your Redeemer."

The kids frolicked in the steam of hot summer streets
Rainbows appeared in the western sky
Rain cooled Main Street , a Tennessee breeze
removed raw heat , rushing downspouts and gutters
before welcome eyes
Tree frogs sang songs of dusk
'Stormwater' fell from oaks in perfect time
Crickets began to chime
Sailing stick boats by moonlight
A cardinal burst into song in the young night
A young dove sang a hopeful tune
Cicadas bid praise for unpredictable June ....

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.