Permeate Us Like Rain

Permeate Us Like Rain

(“This is My much-loved Son. Listen to Him.” Mark 9:7)

Permeate us like rain,
let the clouds surround us with the intense
privacy of light. But our ears are
stuffed and marooned on the islands of
powdered wine. We pass nothing to each other,
and can think of nothing more to say than
we hope it all turns out okay. But ok
is nothing more than
saying I want it to turn out my way.

We pass the sidewalk saints for the black
and white
that describes every person’s plight in morality plays.
We make do with lists of rules. We tailor our
prophecies so fools can fancy themselves kings.

Lord it over us, we ask you, please. And spill the dross
from the outliers of the gold rush we hoard for ourselves.
We can sell the dust in vials of water from the Jordan,
we can make a killing on gilded pages too holy to read.

But there is a turning, a do-si-do that is deeper than earth,
higher than your cruciform steeples. But there is a fancy
dance
that invites every tribe to see the leap of child to parent,
clasp to sharing, strangers to lovers, and an imitation so
clumsy we all fall down laughing.

And we never speak of locked buildings again. We have
seen what we have seen, we have died how we have died,
we have lived

How we are loved. And we can never die again.

Where Was the Scent of Kings?

 

Where Was the Scent of Kings?

(“The holy writings say, ‘He was counted as one of the bad people.’ And I tell you, that means me. And the things that are written about me must happen to me.” Luke 22:37)

Where was the scent of kings,
the incense and the musk of triumph?
There was no uprising,
there was no parade with the captured in chains.
There were no guns or drones,
tanks and soldiers in a row.
There were no fighters or bombers
in formation overhead,
there was no parade on this independence day.

The back-alleys knew, though;
they recognized his face from the galley of rouges.
While power showed off its pageantry
with chariots and swords,
he eschewed concealed carry and
entered conflict a prisoner of war.

We still ignore you because we expect a display,
something to celebrate with fireworks,
a reason to wake up the neighbors,
a magistrate to enforce our suspicions,
a fire-thrower to engulf every sedition
and make it bow so loudly the universe can see
we anointed the king of our own choosing.

But you can be found at the back of the crowd,
initialing the wet concrete.
You never catch our eye with gold,
never wear the trappings of battle.
You refuse to ride the warhorse down
our streets,
and enter in a borrowed jalopy.
We were happy with that for a while.

And now the scent of myrrh, the fragrance
of death-and-life meets us in our doldrums
(Had we been awake, we would have read the
servant poem that describes a prince
who never gave a proper salute.)

And now all our paper mâché mannequins
stand in abandoned palaces. You wait to meet us
outside our hidden prejudice.