Not For a God

I see a spark.
It lights up the night like a firecracker
and fits in the palm of your hand,
like a small, soft animal, warm and wet from birth.

You smile when we fan the flame;
we smile when you smile, and when you open it's warmth to us.
There is no-one you cannot touch; your spark burns in us all,
and makes our night a little lighter,
our burden of sleep a little easier to bear -
making it through the night isn't always easy.

We laugh to think that if you touched enough people,
you'd set the whole world alight with the sweetness of your passion,
one crimson sun setting into another as night turns into day,
one joyous night of wild revelry in the face of all that's worth defying.

Never is one night enough. But for us, tonight,
the night is all we have, and that is always more than enough
to keep pride, hope, and our love of you alive.
You will never burn us, leaving scars to tell the tale of your brutality,
would never even singe the hair of one caterpillar-like eyelash
by accident or choice.

Though you hold the power to spit in the eye of your fellow human,
you will always rise above temptation and lay waste to the carrion of a corrupted soul.

Weaving lights through our mind's eye with your fingertips,
a banner blowing gently in the hot air, signaling hope for humanity,
stroking the cheek of a tear-stained child smiling for joy of your touch,
lifting the melancholy sorrow that touches the hearts of billions,
one booming laugh the sound of dozens dancing, clapping at once,
asking not what you would have us do but what we would have us do,
loving every minute of our presence and taking it all in - the good, the bad, the ugly,
the sad, the joy and tears all as one, and never asking why or judging good and evil.

With open hands spilling sparks, you show us what we might become,
and from your dream we conjure a hope that we can learn about ourselves,
become ourselves, and create ourselves anew.

Dark Beauty

Certain music (Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" cover, Radiohead's "Reckoner") falls under this category, as well as film ("Donnie Darko", "Requiem for a Dream"), and art ("Scream"). What is it about them that is beautiful? What region of our pysche relates to the profound sadness to make this connection with beauty?

I think it's interesting how Americans are drawn to these seeming downers. I always wondered if our fascination with violence, death, therapy, etc. stems from a lack of exposure to these things in our day to day lives. I don't think a lot of Indian children would freak out at the drive through when they're served regular frieds instead of the curly ones they ordered.

Then again, maybe they would. Perhaps having the choice of curly vs. straight is something else we take for granted. And if I was given my first McDonald's experience, and was brought up having no money, had never seen a french fry, had never tasted ketchup, I might be massively disappointed if my order got screwed up.

I've been listening to Jeff Buckley's cover of "Hallelujah" pretty heavily for the last couple of days, and my mood tends to get a little colored. Nothing overtly dramatic. I've been more wistful, which can be a rut, but I also noticed how much I started hating people today at work. Nobody really even gave me shit, but the general selfishness of people was really eating at me. I think if someone had been extremely demanding, I could easily write it off as a one-time-thing, but everyone's requests seemed to be petty and without point.

The cure? Turn my speakers up full volume and blast Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill."

Work in Progress

I broke a note and it struck a chord,
a fingernail scrape across a board,
my empty head is filled with thoughts of you girl.

You tied me to a bedroom chair,
cut my head and left it bare,
and smiled when I gasped my love for you, girl.

It goes like this, from time to time,
for every one I draw the line,
but now it's me who's played the fool for you.

I notice things around the house,
the small tear in your favorite blouse,
we never did too much to fix oursevles.

Said you believed in me and you,
it turns out you're a liar too,
you up and left the day I married you.

Our love is not a simple thing,
it hurts just like a scorpion sting,
your tail drew back to hit you in the back.

The strand of hair in the shower drain,
the bedsheets bear a lover's stain,
and you forgot to call the kettle black, girl.