(Photo via The Other Side - Feed the Children)
LOVE: The problem is not that your hope has sagging limbs. The problem is not that your love has splintering veins. The problem is not that your spirit’s numbed to arctic degrees. The problem is that you’re lethargic, dead to the dance of Love. The problem is that your lovelessness cracked the steel of your thoughts and drove a sledgehammer deep inside of you with the great weight descending from over the shoulders with a vengeance. The problem is that your fear tightened its grip on the handle of the hammer and you slung wrath’s weight and crushed a cartload of innocent children whose faces smiled up from their jumbled view with questions that never had the chance to be answered.
CHILD: “Why do you hate my blackened smile so much that you’d flatten it with the blunt instruments of your contempt?
CHILD: Why would you violently pull the teeth of my joy like a cruel dentist who loves his job to the same degree with which he abuses his children?
CHILD: What made you so tired of seeing and smelling my rotting existence, me whose life was a visible mess, that should never have looked up to you as honorable, should never have been envious of you with your snobbish air, the veiled symbol used to flee your own wretched existence?
HUMAN(un)KIND: No more questions you horde of crying children with your black teeth and malnutrition and bad grades and food-stamped diets and criminal parents who should have taught you to floss, brush your teeth daily and get a checkup every six months instead of allowing you to steal from the rest of us through your vile existence! Why should I allow you to smile at me with your yellow toothed slices of self-pity and foul tears when they’re only going to be tossed away into death’s cavern? You win some you lose some! Life’s not fair you dirty haired litters of wasted flesh and bone, teeth and oxygen! Go home and cry! Go home to your government housing or your crack house and prepare yourselves to die with at least a scratch of self-respect! Maybe you can give your scraggly toothed no-good dead-beat mommy’s and daddy’s the benefit of seeing through their stained and drug riddled eyes long enough to realize that they’re the ones who murdered you, not me! Your parents, through laziness and ignorance, aren’t capable of seeing how the world really works, so leave the living to those of us who know how to do it, after all, we’ve never lost children to indifference, never been without food or a job like your parents! Go away quietly so you won’t disturb the paying customers. Evaporate from my sight so I don’t have to explain your wretchedness to my own brightly smiling, straight toothed children. Slink on by so I don’t have to see you or smell you. Run away so you don’t waste my precious prayers in my precious church with my precious children on my precious Sunday! My precious God looks on you with hatred, too! He says to go out and prosper and enjoy the riches of the earth, and what do your kind of people do? You die away with a foul pity that turns its teeth in on you! I suggest you die before you’re old enough to collect food stamps and be healthy enough to have your own litter of useless offspring destined to collect food stamps, so one day even they can take from the mouths and college money of my own precious children and grandchildren! You disgust me you snot-nosed pathetic parasites! Your mothers should never have been allowed to have you in the first place! Now get the hell out of my sight before I break all the remaining teeth out of your stupid heads!
LOVE: The problem is human(un)kind’s Loveless screech overrunning his humanity, his growing dis-ease that runs smirking and howling deep within the cavern that’s become the cubicle of his mutual consumption filled with the ashen faces of children. Children smiling their last as the hammer came smashing down. The problem is man’s lack of notice at seeing all the bleached bones piling up on the bomb-fissured ground of heaven. The problem is his agreement to this sadness, the horrific art soaring in his dreams like a plane destined for a tall building. The problem is not his heart or his breath, it’s his spleen, loaded to bear with the boiling graft of terror that’s within his hands to end. The problem is that man’s not soaring. He’s not dancing with the spirits that have their hands held out for him to take, to hold with Love. The problem is that man’s collective prayers are clattering down the assembly line of want and pushing children into the bin of hell that man designed for those living that he deems needless. The problem is that man’s run out of time to fix the surging wave of murder riding his foul greed. The problem is that even if it were fixable, he hasn’t the will to change.
© 2011 by mark prime
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