Every word
wrapped in ether
that somersaults off our tongue
first splashes
then sinks deeply
into eternity.
If words are a bubbling brook
above the geyser of our hearts,
they’re poised
to say something about
the nature of our spirituality—
a disjointed but shared reality—
seeking comfort
in the womb of bad religion.
What then about true religion?
It’s not about finding one
that fits our personality.
It’s about conforming
our personality to the truth
and all that that entails:
our motivations,
and our self-defense mechanisms,
our prejudices,
and our prideful dispositions.
Only then
will we live happy
and fulfilled lives
worth emulating
to privileged youth,
whose generational curse
has blinded their eyes
from seeing the warning sign
in a blood red sky:
privilege without responsibility
breeds entitlement
with bragging rights
of insecurity.
God spoke into existence everything;
everything for His glory came into being,
consistent with a cosmic breath
and privileged sustaining,
a metanarrative,
words assigned their order
and prayed over,
etched in ether
across the multiverse
by the living Word,
a love letter
written in royal blood
to break the Adamic curse
so everything,
once destined for death,
can see its true reflection
and catch its first breath.
A bubbling brook,
a reminder of what’s within,
a life behind the life
that lies deeply hidden
like the scriptures of the sea
written in aqua marine
and navy blue
that invite us to dive deeper,
exploring the secrets of divinity
with the turn of a page,
unlocking doors,
rusted for centuries
to lead adaptable creatures
to their next clue.
And that’s to say nothing
of living above the horizon
to be kissed by the sun.
But better yet
what about swimming
with dolphins,
learning to breathe underwater,
retraining lungs
and reshaping organs
to speak sea mammal
with an echolocating voice,
crying to be accepted into a pod
and counted among the stars?
Every wave tells a story,
a microcosm of the Big Bang
with its metaphysical implication:
something stems
from something.
So, it smells
of dolphins decomposing
on jagged reefs
of brazen bravado
to suggest
something stems
from nothing
or life pulled itself up
by invisible bootstraps:
a pell-mell seeking
in a humanist manifesto,
a crescendo of special pleading
that requires more luck
than getting paid at playing Craps
or more faith
in spontaneous generation
than the inspired words of Genesis,
the something from Something
of Creation.