they waiting in an arid land
wading through dense forest
sitting atop a snow-packed peak
searching for the God-man
arriving to enter their hearts
a life-changing event.
I am not a mystic
nor a holy man
waiting, wading, sitting, searching, arriving
little there is I know about.
The streets are where I walk and live
desolate housing occupied by pimps and whores
stealing the very life of those calling this home
arteries and veins clogged like rusty pipes
the narcotics of a dealt hand gone bad.
I search standing on the door step
shattered door no defense against the artic wind
innocent eyes staring back
rancid propane hissing at their feet
defying any and all sense of reason
wondering, seeking for this claimed God-man
in the belly of the beast called poverty.
There is nothing serene, isolated, contemplative here
like the materialistic cathedral around the corner
open only to serve on designated hours
one day a week and oh, one color please.
Be sure to bathe putting on your Sunday best
foul-smelling desolate souls
and most certainly empty pockets are not welcome.
If you are starving how sorry we are
we do our once-a-year serve the poor function
telling each other how much we care
reminding ourselves of What Would Jesus Do
with every lumpy scoop and
a two-slice limit on the processed turkey
which will take place again next year
the day before how festive and joyful
our Thanksgivings are.
Where oh where the hell are you
the One mystics and sages write about
wiping the tears from my eyes
stepping across the threshold
to a world unknown to most
my innards screaming where are you
oh God so perfect so right
as all those with manicured nails preach.
And oh how they preach
in their climate controlled
richly padded house of God
and I wonder who missed the message
the true genuine meaning
standing wrapped in the urine-stained comforter
arms embracing the four little lives
brought into this world
against all odds, shame, doubt and abandonment
none other than the true-living Jesus.
And I almost missed Him
because the righteous stories
of the righteous story tellers are lies
all lies being fed as truth
may they be forgiven
for the real Jesus
is found in the gutters of the needy.
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