Archive
11/26/12 - (2)
Flea
This withering Monday night, a frigid, flesh-shivering evening, Now that I've arrived, abruptly, out of the sky, like an alien invader Or, better yet, a regenerate, hubristic, renegade Icarus, Whose wings failed the air, on my descent into wintry St. Louis, Causing me to take stock of my existential prospects, I gather up all my crashed, scattered, broken parts And meditate, contemplate, speculate on what I'll do next, To take off, again, for the ethereal regions, Beyond which no human being has ever flown, In his outrageous quest for the source of his protean energy, That solar core of molten life-force The Skekhinah alone knows She breathed into my bones' soul, When I began to grow in Her uterine conception of me — A blessed, holy piece of Her cosmos, A privileged species (or so I believed) of Her forevermoreness.
This Monday night, after vectoring in on St. Louis, Falling wildly, crazily, from death's breathless, measureless heights, Having plummeted to this inhospitable desolation, I realize that my God-given design, Master plan, is happenstance, Randomness raised to exponentiated serendipity, And that I can't rise above YHWH's Eternal Flame, Which, in liquefying my wings, revealed to me, irreconcilably, That I am nothing but a paltry thing, a detestable flea, Destined and doomed and damned to be trapped in its own wax.
11/26/12 - (2)
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