The Day I Killed God / Jay Morris

I was brought up on strict lessons
And brave stories
Of desert nomads wandering purposefully
Like a sandstorm army
To follow the wind as it carried the words
Of their God
I was raised on victorious trumpets
And heralding angels singing praises
Of he who was and is and is to come
Old, yellow cracked scriptures
Were ground up like powder
And steeped into my drink
So I could partake
In a communion I knew little of
But considered slightly
For years I prayed at the altars of God
And bore the cross of Jesus
And prayed and prayed and prayed
Until my lips had become
So accustomed
To the words that they poured out
Like second natured spells
When the going got rough
It was during one of these moments of mindless
That I heard a distant howling in the waves
That penetrated my eardrums
Vibrating the desperate message
Know me. Need me. Love me. Remember me.
That voice was instantly familiar to me
And I turned away out of disgust
That this the omnipotent could beg me for my
Prayers, my struggle, my love
I turned away from this being that was
Seeking relevance through me
And cast his dull pleading roar to the airwaves
To be drowned out by the sounds of early morning radio
And late night television
I starved and emaciated him till he was little more
Than the rattle of bones reluctant to get out of bed
And the erratic snowflake beating of moth wings
Before its inevitable plunge into the fire
And in his final moments
I saw the five stages of divine grief
The denial of Peter
The anger of El Shaddai
The bargaining of Jesus
The depression of Satan
The acceptance of Jehovah Shalom
All at once in animal screams
And angel shrieks
At the power of an ego suddenly impressing on him his transparency and weakness
Like a machine suddenly aware of its design flaws
Outdated and obsolete
Outdated and wholly incomplete
Trapped in the fabric of our memory like a stain
That fades
Over time
And I put my hand on his shoulder
And told him to remember his grace
Closing my eyes willing us both to let go
As I whisper
“Can you hear that, God?”
Can you hear the human soul?
Can you hear the sound of it fending for itself?
Can you hear it weathering the storm?
Can’t you see that that’s the holiest part?
The will of we close our eyes.
And feel his dying breath drowned out by the sound of
Late night radio
Early morning television
And pledge to remember him as a time of day
When fairy tales are told and challenged and shelved
Into childish memory boxes.

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