I hear Him coming, with the blues in His head, singing of damnation, and all the things we dread. I see buckshot embedded in His tree, and I’m thinking of all the things that I might have coming to me, if I continue to be good. But really I know goodness is its own reward, and, to want more than that, is to overstep our bounds, inviting suffering into our homes.
Have a little faith in something—then you can feel His reward, though we shan’t live forever, until two hundred thousand years have passed—or more. By then, what? We’ll be living on other planets, populating the universe, as, I think, we are meant to do. But i won’t see any of it—I’ll die, ahead of time, and that could be the end of me, if, in all fairness, I admit, mostly, what i can prove.
So maybe He can’t come for me, or, maybe, when you die, He does, but I can’t help but wonder if this is all a story to get us, as a people, there—something that we ourselves will never share. Does that make this any less important? What if I said that, yes, it kind of does?
What is the point in being the pinnacle of creation if we can never taste the fruits of our labor? Yes, we do it for others, so that they can be happy, living in paradise, but, i fear, that isn’t enough. So i tell myself this life is a projection of five dimensions into four, and i wonder, then, what the projection of four dimensions into three would be.
I suppose you’d be a shadow, and then, from there, an infinitesimal point, something that only exists by being what it’s not. I tell myself the transition will be similar, that, from time to time, I’ll be aware of me, just as I, from time to time, am aware of my shadow, and how we are related. I tell myself all these things, because, to think that I would pave the way, without arriving at my destination, would be a sorry lot, unless, by and by, I made my way back home.
So i step to the story—sure of me,
and the things i relate. I’m hoping
that my subconscious will shine, naturally,
working a little in the background
while I amuse myself with my TV.
Don’t let me work myself to the quick,
missing out on various memory,
the actions of others, just as slick
as me, sometimes, and I aim to learn.
Put other people, then, ahead of me,
since, dear heart, I have passion to burn,
and i would enjoy what is meant to be—
diversion, not only for others, but,
also, for me. So, I’ll enjoy my life,
in addition to living for God knows what—
something that I, while absent the wife,
cannot know. I’ll be a stickler for my
recreation, and sleep, and drift, the full
ten hours, making the day fit my mind’s eye,
and the energy that I would not dull
with either boredom or slavery.
Onward, then, to the evening hours,
where good over evil is plain to see,
and I’m privy to the love He devours.