Labyrinth Awakening {A Prose-Poem}

By

H. Kent Craig



Creation is a myth, God isn’t God unless we exist, we can’t exist unless we have faith in ourselves and we can’t have faith in ourselves unless we have faith in God. God’s a pretty good architect, I mean, look at the lost city of Atlantis or mitochondrial DNA, and an even better comedian, I mean, look at the platypus or George W. Bush and then try to tell me He doesn’t have a sweetly wickedly evil sense of humor at times.

Gravels of doubts under our feet crunch but do not speak to our need to peer over the horizon to see if there is indeed a better place, a center called home, called heaven or hell or sometimes not called at all waiting for us, windows break but do not shard loudly, a door is slammed behind us not out of anger but from gleeful anticipation. A child is given a new toy to keep them happy for a while. Fresh-baked home-made chocolate chip cookies await us if we are patient enough and don’t nag Father to death.

Looking down at our feet our path clear our direction not we see not the horizon but our destination our destination being beyond the arc of perception but within our reach but beyond our grasp so we cry as children because we already have what we don’t know we want. He loves us enough to let us have our five-year-old fits and wipe our snot on our sleeves afterwards not caring that He’ll have more laundry to do later. “Father, father, I am lost!”

A left-turn made when a right-one should have been and we’re not lost within the walls of our path but are turned around a bit, fear coming not from not knowing where we are but from lost time we mere human perceiving time linearly instead of spokenly time being more important to us than the real estate around us we can not lay claim to even though it’s our own. Our path, clear when began now less so, a single cuss word sometimes bringing clarity to the silliness of even giving a damn the way becoming plainer when it’s not finally not important to us. It takes an empty vessel to be filled. It takes a clear sky to see beyond it. It takes a full heart to be able to be confused. It takes a full mind to be able to be loved. It takes an empty path to be blocked, it takes a crowded path to feel true loneliness. A song bird sings not for itself but for its mate. A soul, your soul, walks the path not to reach a destination but its destination. A soul which is parched from its forced lifemarch drinks sand instead of water. “Father, Father, I am not lost!”

A right-turn made when a right-one should have been and we’re not lost again but are befuddled as a an accountant at a brothel, not knowing whether to spend or save or go or stay. All options, in the end, are not options at all, a jar of whiskey tasting better when it’s homemade instead of store-bought, Jesus having turned not wine into water but water into wine He being quite the partier after all if He’ll let you get to know Him. Sometimes the sun is a beautiful friend and sometimes it just gives you sunburn. The shade of green walls smell funky unless and until ego is let go, reality being a pain but still being reality so shut the elf up and let the dwarf speak for the smallest of directions are usually the correct ones.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t ask silly questions.”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

Papa John makes one great pizza but he can’t deliver it to you if he can’t find you. Forget the mystical nonsense and just use your cellphone to call, though the delivery guy is under orders not to tell you exactly where you live at, only you can know that, have to figure that out for yourself. “I ordered this without anchovies!” “No, you didn’t.” Hunger for love starves more people to death than hunger for food. It’s all relative because matter is mostly empty space anyway. When a bird drops its droppings on your hat, it’s time to go home.

Sometimes I sits and sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I don’t do anything at all except stare at my navel and get paid very well for doing so as long as lint has some monetary value. When my feet get tired, I sometimes curse my shoes. My eyes get tired, I massage my ears to make them feel better. Ear wax tastes better when you add a little hot sauce to it. A kingfisher and a cormorant lightly atop the shelter of my bushwalls get into an argument about who is a better scholar of Goethe. I’d give twenty Spanish dollars for a candy bar about right now.

“Yes?”

“No!”

“Whatever!”

Home. Finally. A comfy chair in front of a TV playing a Monty Python sketch, a bowl of hot-buttered popcorn and a cold Pepsi filled with Tom’s peanuts and a Moon Pie atop the stand beside, they near us but not bothering us unless we want to be bothered. Life waited. We didn’t.

“Is that all there is?”

“I don’t know, you have to tell me.”

“But I am you!”

“So, what’s your point?”

“Maybe that when we choose or don’t, we still choose? Or maybe that the safest investment are triple-A-rated municipal bonds even though other financial instruments which aren’t as secure pay more interest quicker?”

“Possibly.”

“Can we watch something else, now that you’re home?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Go ask either the kingfisher or Him, since they’re actually in charge, not me.”



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