a poem appreciating the power and reverence some pay

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Forty-nine.

we who have seen
humanity holy
we have born witnesses
to the miracle of man-made
have to admit
at least
the astounding blinding beauty of it —
the overwhelming level of love of up above
high enough proof to turn pleasure to sin
make martyrdom make sense
make scholars and strong spirits omit o’s,
floors in elevators, prophet's portraits, and names in vain

all at once
reverence and fear and worship and
answers and purpose and
daily distraction and why it’s all worth it
all at once

ignoring all affects and mistakes made under the influence
how great is the love of g-d.

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a poem poorly worshipping our ancestors

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Forty-five.

I know you didn’t live—

breathe
feast
fuck
find
fun
and die

for me.

I know you were
for the same reason we
are: to be.

But if your (our) blood hadn’t been so strong for so long
if your (our) destiny (dumb luck)
hadn’t been to somehow survive—

If you (me)
and all you’s (me’s) after
hadn’t raged against the light
and decided to fight the night
for long enough to make love (more)

then there would be
no me (us, we)

standing on the stage
in another modern age.

So today
dangling at the end of such a long line
you (me) put our gratitude on a page.

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