I don’t have much to say about my relationship with Christ lately… I don’t think you’d want to take a lot of advice from me about that right now. To put it lightly I’ve been a bastard and a schmuck in that area of my life, and that’s some of the reason for the absence of blog posts.
So I can’t tell you what’s right. But I sure can tell you what’s wrong. I hope it’s still productive writing though. It’s hard to find the right answers until you know the right questions to ask.
Like everything that comes between a person and their personal relationship with Christ it’s been a pride issue. I was ignorant enough to think that some of the demons I’ve sleighed in my life wouldn’t grow two more heads and come back with twice as much force to open the old wounds.
I’d like to clarify that some of the elements in the poem below that American-culture considers successful aren’t bad things (i.e. healthy family relationships), rather it’s just to illustrate how everyone needs the grace of Christ. God doesn’t hate material things. He hates materialism. And this poem is about getting caught up in that. It’s about me confronting my deep, selfish sense of entitlement in the world, a world which has already given me more than my due. I’d also like to clarify that I sort of “got into character” in this poem (I call myself good-looking in it… I realize I only have my mom to second that!).
So here it is…
The Great American Cultural Success (the big mess)
(read slowly with a cocky Texas accent)
I wanna be complete like all hell
That’s when I all break loose.
Hard to separate filthy lies from dirty truths
It’s messy as shit.
And I’m hear to tell you
It don’t get any cleaner from here.
I’ve got those good looks
and that natural charisma
that blind talent
those God given gifts
physique like some sculpture of an adolescent Roman
the two parents
the brothers tattooed on my wrist
get along with my sisters real good too
can sing in front of pretty girls
talk sports in front of muscled boys…
I’m the definition of an American-cultural success.
(drop the Texas-accent)
That’s why I am such a mess.
I got caught up in the culture
With all the pride and all the lies and all the vultures.
A loose tooth and a broken nail away from drug-addict-despair
Not much separating the two of us there
Both guilty of pulling out our hair
Although I scratch at my chest instead of my face
It’s better that way —
Soul-wounds no one can see
the bloodhounds got the best of me
came on like talk radio
tracked me down
like a Rottweiler on a mailman.
I tried to send you the world in a package once:
“Ms. Pot, 6 Billion Lost Souls Drive, Helena-hand-basket, Montana”
It came back
A little hope stamped on it