The very same river

Ask for a mansion framed by a yard spilled down to the river Jordan.
Too many massive rooms, halls, a huge restaurant kitchen, please.
In the summer though, the house gets fleas. Gnats in gray clouds
in the kitchen, flies itching to tackle and impregnate crumbs
dropped to the floor, rolled beneath the cabinet door,
spiders, friends stabbed at by a toe, moths orbiting the lights,
from windows open, out of necessity, at night.

Ask for rushing tan water to flow-roar, opened and closed,
consuming unseen boulders, still stagnate in still places,
the breeding grounds of mosquitoes.

Take a walk around the shore, take in heaven’s long rolling like a river winding,
root gripped path, legs slapped and arms reddened, a splash of red blood,
a heart, in the center. Dig gardens and sweat, plant seeds, weed.
One day pull up a snake writhing in leather-clad hands.
Witness pests roam wide open squash leaves and turn orange blossoms into gloop.
Holes burned through potatoes where slices were put in holes, grown,
and eaten by whomsoever gets to heaven with a shovel first.

Still, ask for a mansion. And remember,
do not take paradise for granted. Because it isn’t.

For those who do not plan to work
for their hereafter, the very same structure,
by the bank of the very same Jordan,
is a prison.

The Legacy.

Here now I can’t even say God made me anymore.
Made my eyes and ears and hopes and fears.
Here now, I must be the one who counts.
Counted on accounting for his own self, sake and form.
They tell me there is more to the word I
than meets the eye or nose or ears though.

Apparently, I is a legacy.

I is a line of time creased in several billion places
or so the story goes, but I all the same.
Throughout every age. Stage.
From gill-bearing fetus to Madison Square Garden
to adolescence and the Grand Ole Opry
of a good midlife crisis. All sorts of stages. Many forms.
Enough years you need to come up with different words for them.

Millennia is just the beginning.
Millennial won’t come close to touching the end.

There may have come a time in which I chose to die.
When passing on and leaving behind served
successive generations far more than what
I could have ever done with mine.

My time with I.
How many of us have been poured out into that letter is unknowable.
But how many of us have woken up into it can be counted like single petals
on a solitary head of an ox eyed daisy.

We sit, and for almost no reason commit the treason
of refusing to blame God for existence.
For in it, there is I.

My eyes and ears and hopes and fears.

What makes me who I am today
is who I have been for a billion years.