Crux of the Morning

I and Lord
stumble into the coffee pot, the bus stop,
the close-mind gourd -
complacently divine, you'll find us
sitting, not dead,
relishing finger corn still hot
with Yeshua hoping I'll hold his cup,
though my chai is steaming full
in whose depths Rorschach wrestles
with murky devils new and old -
I swallow the last kernel my body represents
and the Lord looks betrayed
that nothing was saved.
ambling on down towards pumpkin morn,
chimney stubble, and ashen cheeks,
window smudges herald a bloody third dawn
whose sacrifice our morning greets
as I fork over thirty suspicious cents
for a glum and dismal paper
with naught save hellish news
of a father-forsaken earth,
and a cuckoo crows thrice on the hour
and I am not alone


I haven't written anything worth reading for almost a month. That's really rather embarrassing, and something I hope to rectify. When it comes down to a more full experience, life is a priority queue. I wrote in my journal a few things worth considering, including a passage on balance that is woefully incomplete, but has such silly, over-breathy sentences such as: "our foolish culture screams at us to fill only ourselves, and our childish comprehension of religion demands we only fill others, leaving us as useful as a broken see-saw."
Even though the sentence is a bit wonky, I appreciate the topic, and hope I have time to continue that train of thought.