FlatLine

FlatLine

(“He said to them, ‘If anyone wishes to come after Me, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow Me.’” Mark 8:34)

Sweating with reason we approach less glibly,
but still fashion our requests as if incantations
make the flutes whistles, the bells ring, the lights flash
and the toys come tumbling out of the royal vending machine.

Our slight religion has taught us to at least keep our eyes closed
while dropping down our coins.

We are sorry, we dropped the truth on the ground behind us,
hoping those keeping up the rear would notice the saplings
and hang their hats on our optional branches.

Permission to speak honestly? I’m like all the rest.
For a while there I was convinced my own sweat
could be measured to demonstrate devotion,
and the sheer number of groves that still are growing
while my garden lies bare
are the proof I took enough time to die.

But I watched a reality show today where
the lackluster owner of a dying investment was told
to
“work at it from here again”, circling his chest and
hoping, having spoken, for passion.

I ran the dipstick deep into my heart and found what I suspected:
flatline. I’m not joking.

I am angry I do not have the passion to die for any cause,
let alone the Love of Early and Late who erased my hatred
and entombed my dark-esteem.

My pale expression is fear grown polar and sorrow over
following yesterday with energy and hidden shadows,
toddling today like a recovering addict who has nothing left to confess.

I have waved from parades of innocence, and now stand on the sidelines
watching cheerleaders and firemen, boy scouts and the battle of the bands,

Unrecognized by anyone
anymore.