To Ivan

The patrons of the pub
are content in raucous laughter,
naïve to the sickness of consciousness.

But your eyes are late night red, veins prominent
when you relay the news story
of the bruised boy in the E.R. whose father
pummeled him
with raging fists
because he broke a window

by accident.

If this is the Almighty model,
then you return to Him your ticket.
If two plus two is always four, then you are right:
He is, but is not who He should be.

When Job lay sweaty,
naked with boils, encircled
by bloody pottery,
if your math could explain
God, then He should be cursed.

Logically, the hell dwellers
are there because they had no chance
to understand their choice,
casually discarded by that Being
like worthless wrappers.

Rational equals truth (Euclidian)
of course
your logic has no obsidian
tendencies of that ancient snake,
black and glossy postulation:
Did God really say? Your premise remains.

Brother, you think in paradigms
penned in permanent ink;
slithering questions
(the way that you think)
whisper the lie of knowledge
of the Mystery and His ways;

Brother, you think in skeletons,
outlines of life, sterile, dry,
hinting at breath but falling short.
Your mind has cannibalized
your heart.

2012