• From: Ursula Stange <Ursula@xxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • Date: Sat, 09 Jun 2007 21:25:15 -0500

Our Father who art...

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name." Learned far away and long ago, these words still haunt me. They are a benediction on my life, a superstitious chant to ward off...what? I use them to sing my children to sleep in my mind. Their sound beats back the morning. I do not listen to the words; sometimes get lost and must begin again. And yet I cannot shake them off, cannot give up their succor. They are like the smell of my father's tweed jacket; the scent of warmer, safer days. When my time comes I know what I will say. The name of God will be on my lips, but I will not listen to the words; only wrap myself warmly and bury my face in a strong shoulder.

Ursula, agreeing...

Mike Geary wrote:
When I die, the gift of who I am will disappear.
A gift that goes unappreciated even as I write this.
Damn you all, I should curse, open your eyes!
But no, it's OK.
I know what a gift I am to humanity.
And as long as someone knows
that's all that matters.
I am the one who discovered myself,
uncovered the genius that lay buried beneath the muck and the fuck and the suck
of my day to day dealings.
No one else cared to look.
None of you others ever saw into my soul,
never got beyond the lies and the sleaze of me,
never saw the ME of me down on my knees
praying to a God in whom no one believes,
especially not me,
but who the hell else are you going to pray to?
You might think that this is a terrible poem,
but you'd be wrong,
it's actually a song
(music pending)
from which we learn that
though our pieties are as cheap as karaoke
they still can carry us Oakie Doakie
through a troubled life.
Mike Geary
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