Unable to Deceive God into Helping Me

Unable to Deceive God into Helping Me


Like observing a long, long funeral

or flinching at a sudden flash of light

born of rude mystery and everlasting night;

the long, long preparation

massive, moving corpus, flesh concoction,

endures before my captive senses…

Without elation I begin to whisper a prayer

when someone or something screams, “Silence!

My comprehension demeaned

again and again the scream,

cruel celebration, devious death knell—

single thin voice or corpulent chorus?

The scream slams shut like a door

the door slams shut like a scream

the corpus deformed, sickness made sacred.

No asylum!—the Procession must move on

as surely as the Earth must spin its surly course

as surely as life must cease its plaintive twists…

Infant’s initial cry a eulogy to self

scattered adult tears unprovoked elegies

first and last protests noted without concern—

the Procession must move on,

dark, dark, life-provoked screams: “Silence!  Silence!


In most naked truth, silence be damned,

Sisyphus kissed the cold stone

Samson loved his blindness

Medusa was not all that unkind.


As the exit hazedly appears, vision-like,

I am an unsanctified man   

kissing cold stones, craving blindness, praying for Medusa’s caress,

yet my bones and flesh resist the departure

even as the end offers its promise of painlessness…

Love that gave me voice

was that exact same love which eliminated choice:

the choked storyteller remains entrapped

remembering love even in lovelessness

still in strictest possession of the Procession.


God winks, occasionally accepts blame,

but refuses to explain madness or beauty

refuses to abandon cunning or salvation.

The Garden was hardly grandeur

no real coming or going, never any real fleeing,

the Procession swallows all, all is the Procession.


Cryptic devils in apocalyptic rags,

underbellies aglimmer, blemishless,

prod and pierce with cold, plentiful regrets

the Procession their pastime, the sportive test

of talents misbegotten from impious embraces

the rigid encasement of darkness

then the slightest breach, mere sliver of defect,

light shining upon the appalled Procession…

Lenient light, retracted swift as fear, the sliver sealed,

the light sacked and blackened into memory.


The fleshy forms of the Procession

plumb the numbness of their march

with starved fingers pleading for sensation—

slapped and slashed, ganglia anaesthetized,

inserted unrealized into insentient vaults

so vital to the Procession’s progression…

The particles enslaved within weaker particles

within the particle of a particle

such durable minuscule captivity

such tribute to the marvel of manacling genius.


Sentimental assassinations, homespun euthanasia,

the Procession’s firmest delusions,

séances contacting the living, telephone calls to the departed…

The crowd feigns rest, hushes violently,

then en masse screams, “Silence is golden!

and forsaking the simple divine connection

and forgetting that reaction follows action

explodes into the Procession’s lovemaking:

kisses that collide

like fist to flesh, flesh to fist,

angered dark-alley pugilists.


The uncomplicated proposition of divinity

leaves the chains no less sturdy

will not end the bondage of lies…

And amidst the movement and silent yearning

Argus-eyed, labyrinthine-veined Procession

commands a pause for a minor crucifixion

to swirl languishing appetites.


A palm reader, most holy man,

friend of Babylonian Talmudists,

discoverer of guilt and shame

nose against a scroll, reading centuries,

sweat pouring, heart pounding, mind obeying,

labours over an unholy man’s worn palm

until a disobedient voice gasps, “The man has no arms!

The Procession thick in impostors posing as impostors.

A single death stone marks an entire age,

footprints mingle in death cadence, soiled march,

caskets comprise the soured landscape, spoiled haven,

the graffiti of prison walls scribbled everywhere

by undaring hands childishly acclaimed…

The Procession spreads its Earth-and-history-sized arms

and ardently gathers together one and all

in joyous anticipation of the rumoured final Fall.


Calling the sun frozen or the sky pallid changes not the eternal design,

the Procession is what it is, not what I say:

the savage thunder of once-soft songs

years that have grown frail and cantankerous

vanished seasons, wayward maturity, uncontested caducity…

What grand gesture will alter the unredemptive flow?

What cogent tantrum will hinder the Procession?

I start to mumble a response, a formula for an antidote,

a concoction that might be a remedy,

something that resembles immortality in the dim light

an unsatisfying immortality, less than savoury.


Gesture and tantrum fail me

as I proclaim the poison is an elixir

the elixir a curative

and once again I am unable

to deceive God into helping me.

What are you looking for?