Failing on Purpose

What if you yanked your finger from the Hole?  The One the Man you can’t remember now told you once,  with his eyes, must remain filled at the cost of Your life.  Would the Others notice the torrent spilling out onto Your scorched landscape?  Can’t they see Your earth is thirsty?  They – the Ones – who will never understand what it feels like to have silently promised Yourself to Him.

The Safeway rings in Your ears with Salvation Army jingle bells and that Mother in too-tight pilled leggings and crimson bed-head from a box screeches, screeches, “Get in the cart! What the Hell is wrong with you! What the HELL is wrong with you!!” It’s not a question. The Child is crying to keep His promise.

What IS wrong with you?  Your finger is swollen and stuck and throbbing and this yelling and ringing and holiday banter:  Oh Come All Ye Faithful.

Outside a parking lot full of obedient cars in sickeningly neat humming rows begs for freedom.  And the smell, oh My God, the smell. Freezer burn and Formica tile and old beer spilled in the stock room. Would you like to taste some wine, ma’am?  Chemical-laden sugar cookies on sale for just $1.99.  Not two dollars, just $1.99.  All you wanted was some Water.

Crashing after the Monday Friday cube farm nestled in the suburbs of the red, white and blue. Stables of vinyl chloride and VDT radiation and spreadsheet cells. Sick cells. Ringing humming screeching banter You’ve submerged all week long, all week long. Only Your eyes exist above the blood fire and You are the plug. You promised.

You see now Your sea now. Now. The promise was already broken like a runaway car crashing through the neatly decorated Safeway window.  He broke it last year. They broke it last week.  You are free.  The Hole is empty and no One even noticed and you didn’t have to do a thing.

Be still. Never again, never again, can any One convince you there is something wrong with The Void. You promise.


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