philosophy 101

it is two weeks into a new semester. a man walks into a room and says:

i am god.

23 pairs of eyes stare at him incredulously, flashing neon signs of anger, offense, discontent and fear while 23 mouths flap open to voice objection.
2 pairs of eyes look befuddled and a little sick while 2 mouths beneath them are screwed tight.
1 pair of eyes blinks while 1 mouth opens to say: ok, i can see that.

a particularly righteous voice rides above the rabble, rabble, rabble of indignation to say: no you're not.

22 pairs of eyes flicker to the speaker while their head-roosts nod in agreement.
2 pairs of eyes continue to look anywhere but here.
1 pair of eyes scan the room, eyebrows raised.

the man asks: how many of you are christians? 24 hands are raised.
muslims? 1 more ascends.
there is a hand unaccounted for that remains unbidden.

if we are made in the image of god, an omnipotent one, and if all things come from and are made of this god, i say again: i am god. can you prove me wrong?

25 pairs of eyes glaze over and 25 mouths are closed while 25 minds struggle to reconcile lifetimes of dogma and mental conditioning with the geometric logic they have just encountered.

one pair of eyes glows like dawn and dances like spring while one mouth opens wide in a smile.

can you find me?
do you see me?
care to feel me?
no?

you fail.

you can call it a haiku if you want, i do

self containing arrogance.
humility born on the highest of horses.
distorted beauty.
tranquil confusion.
illusion, contemplation, meditation,
clarity, ignorance, disharmony.
indecisive rock.
never changing sea.
all of this and more is less than what i be.

a meditation for willie roberson sr

why so sad? all you faces turned to me in sorrow
i am well, knowing that for me there is no tomorrow;
countless sunrises and sunsets i've seen
until now they all blend together in a dream.
it is called life.

and i have seen mine all the way through
laughed, cried, loved and paid every penny of my dues.
no more struggles with seemingly insurmountable odds,
no more scraping and striving, for i've done all my jobs.

funny that for this you shed so many tears,
recalling the triumphs and failures of my years,
when my sympathies lie with you,
for you still have so much more living left to do.

for you, there is still pain and disappointment,
wounds to be inflicted that have no soothing ointment,
many rolls of the dice left to be cast,
but for me this is all in the past.

not that that's all there is to life at all,
there are also still many tears of joy and happiness left to fall,
but i've grown tired of this roller coaster and its unpredictable ways
and chosen to move on to more tranquil paths for the rest of my days.

so feel your pain, it is a gift given only to the living.
and of your love and compassion never stop giving,
but to those still with you, don't waste them on me.
i've got what i need and am where i'm meant to be.

based on a true story

the lights played on the slick street stones, cavorting this way and that in their festive yellows, oranges, and reds. the walker pushed a damp lock back from his temple, his bright intelligent eyes searching the darkness. the pupils stopped their dancing to rest in the hollow of a neck. it belonged to a woman who milled about with the other inhabitants of this late hour. clad in a transparent robe with a gold braid tracing the diagonal of her torso, and delicate, if not dirty and well worn sandals; she would not have caught his eye if not for the lightness in his stomach when his eyes found that hollow. still unaware of the gaze of the now watcher paused under the drooping canvas over a junk sellers wares, she placed a hand on her hip and began turning this way and that. it was clear she was looking, whether is was to notice something or to be noticed herself it was unclear. there was a hitch in the grace of her movements are she became aware that she was being watched. her eyes took in his long hair which hung in damp ropes about his face and spilled down his back, the torn muddy hem of his robes, and the dry cracked feet strapped in sandals so threadbare and worn they hardly deserved the title. she stopped looking. with a light playing in her eyes that bore no similarity to those of the street, she sauntered over to him and spoke. "hola papi, where are you from? you look like you speak french: voulez vouscoucher avec moi c'est soi? my name is maria magdalena and i promise you won't forget it in the morning." at her words his pupils moved themselves away from that hollow and proceeded to trace the outline of her face. a sardonic smile played over the face of the watcher, and the man finally spoke. "my name is jesus of nazareth, but you can call me mo' bitches. i do speak french and would surely like to sleep with you tonight. i've been wandering in the desert for some time now, so i don't have much money, but i am the only begotten son of god, is there a savior's discount? i promise to make up for what i lack in money in other ways. i may even turn some water into wine if you play nice." she wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, but it was a recession and she needed the money, so she quickly came up with a figure, which he accepted, and they moved off down the street towards one of the doorways festooned with swinging red lanterns. little did they know they'd be main characters in the best selling book in human history. the end.