Lay down your weapons
Take back the songs – for they are yours now
Release your promises from my house
And mine shall retreat at once
And if one should be found
helpless and discovered
It should be returned to neutral ground
And left there.
As should the kings of a definite stalemate.
Your terms and conditions shall now exist
outside of me
And wherever met should
leave the premises immediately
Or be actually annihilated on sight
– I do not doubt that such measures
will be enforced as well
Under your now different law.
I do not mourn or regret our law
Nor will I fight for it
Nor will I regret it
But do not ask me to now abide
by any of your decrees
However slight the coincidence with my own ruleset,
My coldest winter, my law of relativity
Let it come to pass that we now are orbit-free suns
Nailed to our own correct centres
Spinning our own correct ratio of existence and emptiness
And all that’s in between
And it is of no consequence to know
Which one will burn out first
Or outburn the other
In whatever way a star may decide to go
Given that as I burn out
I do actually burn
In all allowed radiance
And that shall be enough.
“He is the god of nothing —
If that’s all that you can see.
You are the god of everything —
He’s inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently …”
God’s dead – now
that is a catchy punchline
A groovy paradigm shift bass motif
Walking down the throbbing streets of the twentieth century
Ablaze with the absence of belief – when life learned not to
choke on the absence of purpose – while learned life
cleansed the air of the invisible
The plan – most honourable : to see through sight
Before the grey-white veil smears blindness like a wax feather
over the eyes of the witnesses
Taming the shrewd into an “unreliable narrator”
Well I am compelled to say I do not like it.
My God is not dead – He would have told me.
My God is wavelengths, high frequencies,
Iconoclast acoustic diminished arpeggio,
All run-on lines, all resonating rhymes
Discounted obscure albums
Brought back to life during sales time
– Innumerable hymns
My God is old.
(My God holds
On his back on his head all things,
arguments, points of view, jokes,
All dragons and princesses,
all forests, labyrinths,
paper idols, floral arrangements,
The Jews know : we should not called God by his name
But simply by his one quality : Eternal.
It is no matter of respect, but of accuracy.
I can draw a stick figure anywhere, graphite or ink or chalk,
And call it Adonaï, and it will be erased bit by bit
By willing volunteers.
God has no bits
He is one like – a puddle of clay
Like the rings of old
Like a Republic – But then again,
I am biased. I Iike God.
Though I suspect soon enough
other things will ring at my door
And – I suspect – will unfold my sheet
And place it over God’s face
with quiet gestures
And I won’t care about flowers, or forests
My God is not dead –
I have not told him yet.