Tuesday, October 30, 2007


I enjoy eating meat, especially if the cut is so rare that it almost seems raw. Right now, my pen is my espada; I held the tip in protest of my hunger for understanding. My left hand grips no muleta; the only thing I hold in those sinestrous digits is my old Bible. Not the one many of you see me with these days, this book is a thicker tome with no concordance and far thicker leaves of paper. It's a cheap, cardboard-bound hardback with a faux gold finish. This is the Bible I took to school once upon a time; it was like carrying a saying "kick me, I'm churchy." I didn't care too much, though. When I had trouble sleeping back in those days, I just gripped this Bible and dreamt I was in the arms of the Lord. I slept there often. Now it feels like a memento from an old friend that doesn't talk to me anymore. I haven't read from it in years because I don't like the translation. The poetry is terrible. Some translations strive to instruct the reader, while other translations speak to the ear of every poet inspired enough to take a look. Psalms is terrible in most English translations meant to teach: my old, friendly, cheap hardback follows that trend thoroughly. The only thing that stands between me and meat is my pen; my protest is over. Feast with me. Talk to me. Tell me that I'm still close to the book in my left hand, no matter how many years, bulls, and rare steaks dwell between this moment and the last time I slept in the arms of the Lord. Come to me as the freshly masticated flesh drips its fat down my chin; seek me as I seek you. Until then, pray with me in the only manner I can sustain alone:

Take me Home
Take me home
Take me home, lord,
Take me home

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