La búsqueda del lobo

I’d do anything at all for any of you if you’d only get her to talk to me
The spirit of God has to be out there in one of you for us to see

Don’t make me feel like I’ve asked askance
This isn’t a matter of romance
It’s proof that our lives aren’t just happenstance
That the things we see aren’t just the fruit of a madman’s glance
That the universe is an intelligent infinity dance
That coincidences are the steps of a roan’s dressage prance
That something was put into me in Scottsdale’s Dutch ambulance

It’s a demonstration of the non-existence of the law of probability
It’s a display of the perfection of divine sovereignty
The genius arrangement of serendipity
Is the evidence of divinity
But all anyone can ever think about is that she’s younger than me
You already assessed the impossibility
That she could ever in any way be connected to me
And you tell me with your snide ignorance that you’ll pray for me
To get over an obsession with some sort of delusion unhealthy
To suck on that mojito eternally
Because what works for you should also work for me
The same tranquilizers should work for everybody
To drone through life happily

You complain of obsession, but you really don’t want it to go away
You sit there watching me hour by hour, day by day
You shake your heads, bite your nails, but never have anything to say
You buy me some toy with which to play
So I’ll be placated just like you, and everything will be okay

Instead of lamenting my obsession
Why don’t you do the one thing that would make it lessen
Convince her to call me, and to give me a therapeutic session
To school me in the truth, as a friend with a benevolent lesson

You say, “I’ll pray for you,” and yet you do nothing
I can tell by my site statistics that you aren’t even reading
Out playing golf while I write to you pleading
As the divine is the ocean of hope in my heart kneading

So don’t for a minute come to me complaining
With your ignorant judgment and endless explaining
Get off your high horse pretending to come saving
Some poor broken madman with his delusional raving

I’m trying to resolve the methamphetamine mirage
To hear the voice behind her splendorous visage
But you guys just want the dead nigger out of the garage
An impossible and irresoluble montage
That I and everything else make an incongruent collage

You haven’t even picked up a phone, or sent an e-mail
You’re sliding across my window like a slug or a snail
Not even willing to break a fingernail
About as helpful as a fart in a gale
Obviously the herald that Jesus would hail
While I live a chapter of Jonah and his whale

1 Comment

Leave a Reply