The mud that made man binds my right hand.
The crowd gathers, watching.
They’re impatient, their eyes look through me, above me, beyond me.
My stomach tightens with recently-consumed Woe.
This is not my voice.
Too small, too still, too urgent, too quiet.
Surely salvation raised from desperation is no salvation at all?
The wheel spins, the speech begins-
Sins, sins, sins, sins.
I am a broken vessel, shattered by the Divine. The spirit came upon me,
It forced me to stand. Beneath every wing
lies a calloused hand,
gathering coal for my lips unclean-
I pause. I must try to start again.
A new word.
A new red stain.
They mock me quietly for fear of mocking Him.
I am a monument to an angel-haunted world,
an embarrassment to those who would have their gods theoretical,
who prefer their miracles hypothetical.
The sky shakes from footfalls of burnished bronze,
the blade that gutted Leviathan protrudes from His lips
and I’m alone,
Abraham’s knife in hand, carving an effigy of the Promised Land-
Isaac lives, he’s… Fine.
At the mercy of the Divine.
Listen, listen! He forgives, He forgives, Isaac lives.
I am just a broken vessel, raised up, brought low by what-
A man alone
in a ring of stone,
freed from a cage of blood and bone.
This voice, this voice, it’s not my own-
Babbling about a sapphire throne-
This idea began to form as I listened to Nick Cave’s lecture The Flesh Made Word. In the lecture, Cave asserts that “God was talking not just to me but through me, and His breath stank.” This statement compelled me to revisit the Old Testament prophets and ask “What would it feel like if The Creator tapped you on the shoulder?” *