Growing up unliberated . . .

I eat aspirins as food for thought,
there’s too much future shock to absorb,
too many alternatives of who to be,
so I remain, in alphabetical order, no one.
There’s too many current events
or living legends to follow—
too many commercials and dreams to be sold.
And a Time magazine from last week,
reads so strangely—old.

“Hey, are ya lost, babeee?” the truck driver shouts at me with twisted grin.
“Who isn’t?” I retort back.
Here’s the great sick society. Welcome aboard!

Bob Dylan, I feel like I know you;

I’m bored with these degrading bar scenes. But, see ya next week. I forgot your name too.

I had a friend, Big Zep,
who was trying to find
some kind
of peace of mind.
He went to Walden pond,
and as we held our breath,
he reported that
it was just another pond.

I hope the word “love” will not be reduced to an italic reference in the Kama Sutra . . . a word, an idea recalled only by the old timers—love, an ability that went out when they tore up the streetcar tracks, and our mothers went to the factories to make Spitfires.

In my spare time, I combed thru libraries.
(Take a pseudo-intellectual to lunch.)
I dwelt in the footnotes of wise guy’s flaunted knowledge. . . . I, the struggling pauper gnawing hungrily on stale bread.
Some arrogant sage, fat with wisdom, raised his eyes and noticed my hunger.
He threw me a hot dog, and a dime.
With my dirty fingers, I soiled the pages of their deep thoughts. It was my way of retaliation, but fighting back, I discovered, takes a lot outta you.

I loved a man who didn’t leave me . . . in fact, he never arrived. Indifference is painful and it pushes you one of two ways: to a glass menagerie of fantasy and imaginary lovers, or to theatrical school where you learn to master the art of Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. See what I mean? It is only at the end of a long,
painful movie that he gives up and says, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” . . . But what if you do?

I lived above a drugstore. When I had insomnia
I played all-night jazz, and drank tea.
I knew a guy that used to boil painkillers and reds and drink it like tea. . . . What would lonely people do without all-night radio?

I wanted a hero. But Marilyn’s dead, baseball’s dying, and Joe DiMaggio is selling Mr. Coffee Makers.

It ain’t that we people don’t want to love anymore— It’s simply we don’t know how. Erich Fromm, Dr. Reuben and Company tried their best.
We need more than a human touch—
we need Divine teaching at best.

My journal points to a fragged portrait: an
exploited cynic. Exploited by my own sin and the
discomfort of despair.
I can imagine that when God scans this universe,
He reads more human agony in more languages
and sighs than anyone could bear.

The sufferings of Christ proved to me the intense
investment and involvement He had with human nature, He didn’t boast of His identity in a Captain Marvel style. He didn’t use synthetic smiles and manipulation, intimidation, $1.98 words, or false promises.

It’s hard to believe anyone, and the skeptics would heartily support me.

But Jesus endorsed His promises and words with His very self: and just the fact that He came here.

He didn’t bellow down from the heavens, “Hey gang, I love you, but clean up your neighborhood—and wash your faces, and don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve, slobs.” And etc.

That was my strange view of God for a long time:
I saw Him as a combination Nordic war god,
Yiddish mama, and “Big Brother gonna git yuh.”

But He is love. His love liberated me from the
web of self-interest. His love begat the desire to live and give once more. To not be afraid to not
retreat.

There is no love without blood.
There is no blood without sacrifice.
He is the living sacrifice.
There is no real meaning without revelation.
The vinegar of life transforms to wine.
There is no value without price: He paid it.
There is no life without Him.

Without Him, I was barely breathing.

He comes with sun and wind,

Loyalty and friendship.

This poem was previously published in Cornerstone magazine in 1976.

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 26, Issue 113 (1997), p. 7
© 1997 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
Electronic version may contain minor changes and corrections from printed version.