The Most Interesting Man in the World

This one made me smile.

Gerald the Writer

Yeah, you might have seen the commercials. I think they’re advertising a beer, anyway, I got to thinking… Would I really like to be the “most” in anything?

Even the most interesting man has to accomplish the most uninteresting of duties. Take a leak. Brush his teeth. Eat some eggs.

I caught myself thinking “I want to be the most humble man in the world.” I don’t know if that is a paradox or an oxymoron. Maybe it’s simply moronic.

Maybe I want to be the most “telling-it-slant-poet” in the world. I would lay down lines which echo for a hundred or so years.

Being the most… Most. Most. Most. What a funny word. The more I ponder it, the sillier it sounds. Say ‘most’ out loud enough times and well, what do you think?

Honestly, have you ever met anyone aspiring to be the most UNinteresting person in the…

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Any Other Way

Come Lord Jesus.

Gerald the Writer

Oh God, come any other way,

but not as a child.

Come in a space ship

so we can claim you as an alien,

as a figment of our imagination.

Wash up on earth’s shore

so we can claim you as a castaway

an unknown, scraggly and salt soaked.

Walk into town as a vagabond

so we can look and call authorities

to distance us.

Stand by the side of the road

so we can decide if your thumb up

is necessary for us to stop.

But please don’t come as a baby.

Don’t come and coo and cry

and take our breath away.

Don’t come as we did,

dependant and humble

and wrapped up tight.

Just don’t, don’t be so vulnerable

as a wonder from a womb

bathed in the liquid of humanity.

Don’t come as a child, please.

For then we would need to

hold you in our…

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December Crawl

Fog stumbled in,

shuffling on shrubs,

tripping on curbs.

 

How it mocked

the low-beams,

and licked what

 

was left of the

last snowfall.

December crawl.

 

Visibility: one quarter

mile ‘til Christmas.

Quarter smile.

 

Psalm of the Practicing Agnostic

I’ve tried gritting my teeth,

But ended up grinding them.

I’ve tried getting a grip,

But ended up grappling.

The bootstraps were pulled,

But snapped like suspenders.

I haven’t been anxious for nothing,

But worry about everything.

 

Agnosticism doesn’t play well,

While an impersonal God takes it personally.

“Relax your jaw,

Loosen your grip,

Lace up your cross trainers.

Let’s go. Follow Me.

My yoke is easy,

And the burden? Light.”

Of Theorems and Theology

Is Jesus the theory of everything?

Can we walk together in a unified field,

so wherever I go, there He is?

 

Is Jesus a string through it all,

wending, weaving like a thread?

Does He carry us along its cord?

 

Did Jesus split history like an atom?

Is He a super conductor,

able to collide like an iconoclast?

 

Come, be my theory of everything.

Come, tie Your string around my finger.

Come, collide, and split me open.

 

Squirrel!

Squirrels express frustration by twitching their tails ...

I don’t brake for squirrels.

I don’t swerve either.

I pray for them.

I plead with them.

I yell at them.

 

They seem suicidal,

Daring even.

They’re just doing

As told.

“Go play in the street.”

“Cross the road, or halfway.”

 

I stay centered

In the lane,

White knuckled,

Eyes forward.

They, one eye

At a time,

This and that.

 

“Make up your mind!”

“Move!”

“Squirrel, squirrel,

Squirrel!”

“Oh, for crying…”

“Please, no!”

 

No thump.

Nothing in the rearview.

No yellow pasted

Like the centerlines

They dance around.

I sigh and mumble.