Oh, the Lord spoke to his wandering flock, with
the love and authority that only a father could
possess. His word is powerful, uncompromising,
but he still keeps the gates open, giving us the
option to wander off a cliff or into the fearsome
jaws of wolves.  And we all walk through the
gate, even though he has trusted us to stay put,
even though he has given us all that we need.

I wish I was more like the Lord, so that I could
love you without condition.  I try my best to
forgive as you walk through the gate I built.
I try to be patient, but I don’t always have it
in me.  I break down, I become angry.  I do not
respect as He respects us.  For that, my apologies.

The Lord knows what we are and what we will
be.  His patience cannot be measured.  What is
the span of a life to the Eternal?  He can wait.
He can bide his time.  He knows the moment
in your life that your heart and soul will be most
responsive to his glorious message, his Gospel.  

If I could have a fraction of the knowledge of
the Lord and know when you will receive my
Gospel, my heart would be at rest.  I love
you with all my soul, but my will is not as
strong as the Almighty’s.  I can be tested, I
can be unruly, I can be unreasonable.  My
scope of understanding is limited, childish
in comparison to that of our mutual Savior.

Maybe my message isn’t something that you
are meant to receive.  My message could be
white noise, subtle as the spring rain.  But maybe
I can use the written word as the Lord has.  I do not
have loyal servants who feel called to spread my
message, for it is only meant for one.  I have
written in convoluted puzzles and trivia all this life,
but for once, my message, my goal is plain.

Know that no matter what happens, my heart will be your own.

I was waiting for a simple message from you that
we both know was never to come. I sat impatiently
atop the cities tallest building and watched the coming
storm.  I witnessed the water beat the feeble earth
into submission and it looked alright to me.  But then
the raging sinless sea swallowed the shore.  The end
of our hometown (est. 1919) took about a minute
and a half. A man leapt out of his chair and said it
was amazing as the punishing, purifying wave tore
into his home of 20 years.  The coin laundromats and
malls became the shallows and downtown by the Top 40
radio station became the deep.  Clown fish swam amongst
the stop lights, trash cans and satellite dishes.  And a
coral reef began to grow deeply into the brick of the tasty
Greek restaurant at the corner of MLK and Main.  Eels and
rays swam up the sidewalks and hammerheads patroled
the submerged skyscrapers.  Admittedly, a lot of the
busy people who didn’t take the time to look out their
smudged windows and watch the water devour the flood
walls and seafront property didn’t make it out of their
homes and cars and schools and businesses.  And those
people that didn’t make it to the outskirts of the metro in
time were quickly drowned and integrated breathlessly into
the oceanic food chain.  The deep began to kiss my ankles
and I thought I would surely drown.  I surmised that you
probably weren’t thinking about us at that moment and that
it was for the best.  You had other matters on your mind.

I watched a miniature apocalypse take place and
I thought I should probably call and quickly tell you
that everything you ever loved was gone or going.

I decided against it.

Anything I say to you is gonna come out wrong anyway.

(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)

The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives.  What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood?  The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not.  It was as important to us as the script of action flicks.  We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go.  The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us.  Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms.  The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night.  We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps.  It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping.  We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water.  Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms.  I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.

Can’t go more than 2 hour(s)
without the 6mb/s fix. Cat-6e
cable wraps around withered limbs
like a starved boa constrictor.  Pushes
out air with a wet wheeze.  Jams its
ends into waiting wrists for a digital
high.  Injects and suffocates vessels
with ones and  zeroes of  hyperbole,
hysterics.  Let it fill to the brim with
the tedium of 547 who this one probably
hates.  Update broken beta software
to 1mb faster than yesterday, muscles
turn black(000), autumn without
rebirth, stunt the growth.  Absorb
convenient facts, no need to know,
no context, blog half truths get followed
twice fold.  New faceless friends,
dreaded foes, all specific silhouettes.
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