Chicago, Il. USA
He lived alone with the one he loved
And he was happy.
He roamed with lions,
Ate with jackals,
Played with lambs,
And they loved him,
For he had named them.
from a never ending spring,
He gazed at his wife
Clothed majestically in all her nakedness,
And he walked with God
Whom he deeply loved
For it was God who named him.
And he was happy
His was a perfect happiness
Unguarded by memories of misery past
And free from fear of the future.
But all thatís changed, though not forgotten.
And it is the memoryís of the past
That fuel the hell in which he lives,
At first he dreaded the work.
His blistered hands, and bloody knees
Shocked his virgin nerves with pain.
But wounds heal, and hands callous,
While the sinews of his mind remained tender,
Pricked by everything that took him back to before.
He couldnít even work a full day.
No, his wife could not understand,
But in the cool of the Eve,
When work should have been easiest,
Weepingly he would watch the waning sun,
And remember when he used to share that view with its painter.
It somehow seemed more beautiful before,
Of course then it was not blurred by tears,
Tainted by memories
And eclipsed by the anxious expectation that maybe,
If he waited long enough,
Cried hard enough,
Hurt deep enough,
The former breather of life might come
As he once had,
And breath upon him
For he was dying.
But each night the light faded,
And darkness once again covered the face of the deep.
This time without the Spirit of God,
But instead, the darkness was joined by a mighty wind
And from his soul,
(once again formless and void,)
Echoed that everlasting question first uttered by God,
WHERE ARE YOU?
And walking back to his wife with his
And parched throat
He knew that while he could never go back,
He was cursed to remember.
While he must live in this haunted world
His mind would forever reside in a fantasy world that somehow rang true,
For once it was,
And he had destroyed it.
His was true regret,
For he had known true happiness.
It had been about knowledge,
His wife had told him.
Well, he had knowledge.
He had the knowledge of Evil
And the memories of good
And the two waged war within his soul
Like two immortal stallions,
Rearing and kicking,
Bruising and biting
But ever living.
His wife tried to help.
At night, when he returned from waiting,
She would be there, smiling, nude.
But sometimes, when the moon was bright,
He would see her stark nudity,
And he would remember how her nakedness had once clothed her,
Smiling he would draw her near,
Like a missionary eating a precious worm from the chieftain,
Nodding and smiling, but cringing and gagging within.
He hoped she couldnít tell.
Then the boys were born
And he put his life into them
Because they could not remember.
As time past the memories began to fade.
The boys helped him work
And he taught them to sacrifice.
It was the boys he longed to walk with
And so he filled his world
And he nearly forgot,
So he was nearly happy.
But nearly was as close as he would get.
One Eve, after finishing a sacrifice, his boys went walking.
A twinge of pain caught him briefly off guard as he sat alone,
But seeing Cain clinging to his favorite tool,
(The one he had made him)
Caused him to smile as he faded off to sleep.
Not knowing that his sons backs,
Walking over the horizon into the setting sun
Would be as close to happiness as he ever came.
The next Eve, anxious, he went wandering.
Drawn by the voice of Abelís blood
He found him bruised and battered
Slain with the very tool he had created.
By the son he had born
And as the sun set
And the mighty winds came
Again his voice could be heard echoing against the hills.
GOD, WHERE ARE YOU?
WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN HIM?
CANíT YOU HEAR HIS BLOOD CALLING OUT?
And as the blood called out
Regret rushed in.
Like a might river it crushed his mind,
Shattering his nearly happiness against the rocks
As a cube of mountain ice
Cascading down some great falls onto the jagged rocks below.
And for the first time he knew the curse of God,
For now he knew death.
And the bitter juices of that retched fruit
Began to eat away at his soul.
And so the bloodied body of his son
Became his everconstant companion.
Haunting his work
Waking his sleep
And calling his name.
His was a story of tragedy.
The first tragedy,
The root from which all others have sprung.
For there, against the memory of a deathless, sinless world,
Lay the bloody body of his righteous son,
Reminding him of the wages of sin
And foreshadowing for us all
Its only solution.