POEM: Unoriginal Sin

Thirst thing in the mourning
Adam collided with Adam
Agin and agin
As taken aback
As it was a hit
Necessitating an equal
Yet opposite reaction
Recoiling for time in memorial
Chastening to watch
As if
One clock to rule them all
As reliably ticking off
As any won could predict
Nay, reckon
How many fateful years
To urn a time peace
As fools goaled
Pain the prize
For what is
Only avail Abel
As kicking morass
Miring won another
As if he only
Poo-pooing
All that is given
Freely
Undertaking
What should be
Wreckless abandon
Lives in untolled runes
Malingering by passing
High noon
Long lost in the shadows
Of a flagging west
As dusk to dusk
And wend we do not know
Sow inconceivable
To sum
As won’s better have
Of what once was
Mirrorly
Eve ‘n
O men!
Of what will be

From whence the spirit comes and to where it goes, nobody knows.  The life of the spirit is deeply involved in possibility, originality.  As the prophet Isaiah proclaimed in this regard: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19)  Denying wondrous, life-springing possibilities and freshness is unoriginal sin.  Leaning on the everlasting alms calls us to awe that is anew.  The wilderness today is a so-called civilization with a seemingly inescapable rigged game.  The wasteland is a close-sum game with all competing for seemingly scant resources and only hoping to make degrade. The life of the spirit is imbued with hope and possibility.  The probabilistic universe that we live in is simply a playground for hope to run amuck — amuck being what happens when stardust is mixed with water.  Mistaking the universe, creation, for merely a set of rules buy which wee are gloriously complicated dirt determined to be the best rule followers, is the worst sort of religion.  Experiencing creation is an inescapable part of our being — “do you not perceive it?”  Participating in creating is much more optional.  “He made me do it.”  “That’s not my job.”  “I’m only doing my job.”  These are not the type of things that people say who are firmly grounded in the rapscallion life of the spirit, that is, who are in love with hope and possibility — and in love with love.  May you be totally captivated by hope and possibility, a vexing wrench in the probabilistic gamers triangulations.  And if you must sin, please, try something original.

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