Friday, December 26, 2014

If I Were a Field

Every time
I think 
About 
How much
Hate 
You,

I clench my teeth
And fists;

I consider 
The punch 
Of 
Packed words 
I would say 
To send your stomach
Up into
Your mouth.

I am no saint,

But,
I pray for you instead...

Which sounds so 
Fucking 
Moronic,

I know.

I know.
I pray:
"God let Him feel love in his belly right now, as if he has eaten the sun, so that he might be so warm he heats a cold house in the heart of a vacant city. God, let beer be good to him and not fickle like it sometimes is. And let him forgive and forget and forgive...me. And let him have love, the deep kind that burrows its roots down into the earth like an oak tree. Let him ride his bike today. Because I read this book once about this guy who had a bike and when he rode it, he felt like he was inside a dream--on the moon--and in Spain all at the same time. So, let him feel that way if that's how he likes to feel or if it benefits him. And of course if it does not...well, make him feel some other way. Because I'm sure you knit him well, right?

Amen."

Sometimes I go on to say really depressing things like: 
"Turn back time, God. Fix it, make it right."
Or
"God, I broke it, I broke it, and I hate myself for breaking it. Can't you have mercy and fix my mistakes?" 

But when I was 
Little,
They said
To me: 
"God
Doesn't hear 
Selfish 
Prayers."

So, I
Don't 
Expect much.

I am 
No psalmist.

But,
I call 
My mom 
Every time 
I feel
Like
I hate 
You.

And 
She's so sick of hearing about
How much 
I
Hate 
You
That
She she tells me to pray
(Perhaps as a last resort)
Because she has no 
Medicine left
To say.

She says 
God never 
Tires 
Of hearing about

How I hate you.

Because Jesus loves
Me.
And 
Christ 
Likes to hear 
Our iniquities.

I once heard 
A sermon 
About 
How Abba has this field.

I mean, I guess God
Has all the fucking fields 
He wants.

But in this one He takes all your pain
And sows it,
And 
He harvests it
Into
Gorgeous things.

Christ told me
Last week 
My 
Fear
Is a sea
Of
Yellow 
Poppies.

I dunno if yellow poppies actually exist,
Or if God's just making things up in
His head again 
(Like He always does).

But...it's a nice thought.

I hope my hate 
Comes out in
Indian
Paint
Brushes.

So I can stop
My 
Hateful heart 
From breaking 

And 
Love 
You

Again
[And maybe paint you too].