I know why carl hates god.
I've heard his barbacked arguments. his inappropriate workaday pose. his banter. his existential folds. his sermon on the mount of human frailty at the end of the world rubbing his hands greedily waiting for just the right moment to shout loud as his red breast has ever beat I FUCKING KNEW IT!
But i don't agree.
This isn't news, i'm sure, to most of the rebels who've roused me for so simple an angle as saying there might just be something there more elucidated than a fucking human being and he or she (there was the long running dream that in death there was nothing but a fat black woman whose name escaped me even then who would cradle the newly ended into her epic bosom and let them know that when all things end beauty can begin in it's deepest and most inspired ways before buddha whispers something about it being time again and i still might if i ever really afforded myself the chance to consider the divine beyond the wicked alias of upbringing. catholic guilt and roman rest. shame sprials through the sects that keep me - to this very day - wishing it wouldn't be such a goddamn social sin to claw a piece of my flesh for penance before the one i've wronged and in so doing make each error seem a gift to the powerless. alms, if you will. but like any good christian boy i've done a small wonder of internalizing when i tell you how i really feel because that ill is mine to drink away. smoke. stare into the sleepless hours, scrambling for a chance to amend the consequences of my foolishness so each and every fucking thing can be perfect just so long as it kills me in the end. but it's not martyrdom. fuck a bunch of lauds. in fact, my will to suffer time isn't one i even want noticed but if it makes the world a better place i will. gladly. even if it's a stony hill story. even if it doesn't matter at all. it does. because it's mine to do with what i like and i'll be damned if i won't make it right) might just be a spectre beyond all understanding.
A ghost, i guess.
A shapeless sky imbued in everything. the empty wheel. the river turning waves to sea and oceans where they crash back and leave the few daring enough to see them coming breathless in wonder and wait.
Ready to be destroyed as swept away to the peace that surpasses.
And maybe, one day, i'll understand that. one day i'll see the spark that started all good men to war for a name. a place. a right to what was given (once) in a blind, knowing gesture of complete imperfection.
Loose us from these sterile convictions.
Mansion On The Hill.mp3