Sunday, March 22, 2015

It's an honest question

The Pater Familias (down there in the ages of ages,
was a traditionalist, so it is told;
first, meting out with Lawful precision
and grudging exactitude
a holocaust to the local Baal,
appeasing some ancient superstition;
and after
he went out and built his cities
and though some turned to ruin and dust
or were flooded out of existence
he laid in the foundation 
for us 
with hard work and toil.
Building up city after city in a new country,
in another age,
with comely temples
and practical dwellings,
right up until, 
until his house fell in on his head.

Fifty-five generations hence,
went out and 
into harlots,
toiling upon an unforgiving Earth. 
Raising up the requisite altars 
with even more miserable results.
Each generation having raised up a would-be hero
(a real nutter by any realist’s estimation),
who cried us out of one country into the promise of rest.
Still and all,
Our People knew the score-
we bore the mark right on our bones.
We built the booths,
raised the altars,
turned up the earth
and wept bitter tears back in.

So when this young upstart 
gave up the ghost,
called my bluff,
wept on Your breast,
received in Your embrace-
How could I not turn it back on You?
Listen! You’ve done it all wrong!
I was first and I gave You Your due.
and what hell did it get me, anyway?
Not so much as one single roast kid for my pleasure.
I can’t give up now.
I can’t be fooled.
I’ll take my certain toil over this mytho-mystical rest.

You keep your peace; take it with You when You go.