Someone else’s sacred.
11.22.17 – Word-ship
I was pitching rocks in the ditch thinking maybe I’d dam that stream but it was damn dream to think that course would suffer to bear any cross I’d offer. I’d have better effect flexing at clouds and asking out loud for them to start to part like I was Moses on the Red Sea. They wouldn’t even see me, turn their noses up at me, and keep taking the B-line across a broad skyline. If they opened ahead, rain to be read, spilled for stories over four stories to fill my worries full without this construction functioning as intended. It’s in the wind I did indeed feel that flood rushing to meet up before I could get my hood up. No sense in fixin the nonsense of sticks and stones thrown in to divert an inert river from reaching its goal. It made me feel un-whole, like we were the shoals in erosion, a notion that’d wore us bare till water was where we all were born. But we dug our heels, dug our ruts, stuck to the struts to keep that rug from ripping out and being swept about by the swift rides of steady tides or the cold slip of current’s bold grip. If a dam won’t do and we can’t perform a sham miracle for fear all people could call us charlatans than we’re in a pinch. Pressed without mention to make matters uttered with certainty, mustered by serenity, and divined by divinity. It’s why we buried more rocks in the hole, we bought those bear stocks and lost all we could bear and now we were drawing lines in the sand to carve the land into a shape where we could state unequivocally that we won’t starve in storm or sink in its bleak plot. That thought was all the talk it took to make the creek turn a crook. I was the shepherd shuffling the flock like that other stock figure of scripture fame, only, in his name is purchase certain on the surface of these open and evoked oceans.