To Be Not To Be Debate

hey heaven, seat for me,
bed for me, room for me
account I applied to open
not open yet, not approved yet
hope you’ve not lost my application
inconvenient to fax it in or e-mail it in
ages ago, I prayed it in
hope it’s not still stuck
against the ceiling of the room
in which I offered up those prayers
I remember my knees bruised, hurting
don’t remember where it was
where I was kneeling
it might have been at the altar rail
of the Cathedral on George Street
but in there there’s cushion
upon which to kneel
was it as long ago as Holy Cross,
Freeport, when The Pestainas,
Foster and Ruby were still alive
you’ve made room for them
you’ve taken them in
I’m still here with my tummy aching
taking sh+* on earth
getting little for all I give
little respect from those requiring
one to genuflect before them
everybody getting away with murder,
with everything else, on this planet of noises
so little reverence for it
no one seems to remember
that they are walking on holy ground
too many shoes and tennis shoes across it
too many tires cross it, scar it
thought I was living, was sleeping
was walking, on holy ground
but it is a place to spit, to piss
for whatever other abomination
in whatever nation
if there’s no room for me upstairs yet
find me a corner down here
to turn through, a quiet lane
with shady trees, away from insanity,
insane citizens, life seems worthless,
misuse of time, abuse of spaces,
of places we have to share
human beings, like hogs on earth
grunting, groveling in the mud
bloodying the mud with bodies
falling in it, resulting from affairs
gone sour, resulting from idols on earth
set up in place of YOU
children of Israel
wandering the wilderness still
still not allowed to enter the Promised Land
the map to it, lost, ages ago
even though we have King James
the best we can do is construct,
erect Atlantis, build bridges to it
imagine it was Paradise
because movie stars and other stars,
none of them from heaven,
frequent it, descend upon it
because fire works from Paradise
light the sky so many colors
boom as loud as bombs falling
when each burst of fire works
ruptures darkness, dark nights
without reaching heaven, full of stars
able to see them only on Eleuthera
on some remote out island
unlucky enough to have been
left out of modernity,
to be without electricity
how tired I am oh, God,
of everyone, everywhere,
wanting to force-ripe themselves
into belonging to what is
the most modern of the modern ages
wanting to be always, upon the cutting edge
though it cuts us upon it, apart,
like fish, like chicken for frying
devil, forever, heating up the frying pan
his fork in hand to fork us up
to turn us


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
10:51 a.m. 08/09/07