prometheus

i remember the day when i crept into the kitchen
(now the fresh fragrance of broken bread fills the air and
vividly vine-violet wine (say vin) vicariously
spilt upon the ground drip-drip-drips still from the cross-
rails of that rack constructed in a carpentry class
taken after i forsook the family fishing trade
and began instead the imitation of my older brother
— and i a hot-headed first-born son! —
and hiding behind the bottles of vintage zion ’33
sits a photo of the day we found him,
the day we caught twelve dozen juicy tuna,
or slightly more, and ate and laughed
and spoke of Love and even Death)

but the day i crept into the kitchen
was a thursday, before the good sixth day when
GOD made the Lord — i mean the Lord made man —
(i get confused, is he in His image, or is He in His?)
in His image, (’twas graphic perhaps, but iconic)
and He saw that it was Good and that it was Finished
and He took a day off to rest in the Beauty
and in the Truth and in the Goodness of it all
— but we thought Him Dead! for He had always
been so regular, like clockwork (so we thought),
there was evening, and He’d stop working,
there was morning, and He’d start again:
all ready for the n+1th day.
but it turns out He’s not a carefully-crafted
clockwork cog, a material mechanism
to keep the sun burning, planets turning
in their orbits — No! He is…
quite the personality. (an underwhelming understatement
for a soul so Spirited, for a Whole so uninhibited
that just to demonstrate His love He climbed
up a tree and hung there for a good (!) three hours
while everyone wandered past wandering who He was —
while i had run away, ashamed by the exuberant Romance
of it all; i preferred the faked flirtaciousness
of my casual concubines, the socially acceptable
date-rapes of expensive evenings in egyptian bars,
anything instead of this cosmic drama
of undesired love.
who wants an arranged marriage after all?

creeping into the kitchen (before the baking of the bread)
lured by the oven-warmth of those fiery flashing flames
i tip-toed to the furnace in trembling and fear
(the absurdity of it all! thinking like a child,
[un]reasoning like a child, like the child i was)
and dreaming of stealing the fire of the heavens,
— eyes on the prize, i reached for the skies —
and grabbed for the glory of the blazing flames
and — yaaooOOooaahweaaAaeh — o the pain!
hand consumed by the flame, my arm covered in burns,
the fire did not remain — yes, we live and we learn.
long hours later, after scolding and screams,
the smell of smoke was washed out from my shirt
and it even recovered its original white :
but the right sleeve hangs lifeless and limp
since the amputation of my arm.

still, as He said: “things could be Worse”,
and the week doesn’t end on the thursday.

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