Saturday, March 23, 2013

Salman Rushdie’s Letter To God

            To Any Whom Who Might Be Concerned,  
             Bespeak me of moans truer than honest, and plead a mere beg above the fray. Shudder what riddles this corpulent bag of ex-dust with pinpricks of doubt, sure, if thy will be shameless, if thy tires be worn through and through, or if thy name seek holier climbs than these shallow open-ended chaffings of mine. Jesus, what’ll we come to next? Rubber machines? Tape-recorded prayers? Would the end of the century pool promise if thy feverish spells churned bleakness to a buttery glint of surprise, or even wonder? Laugh, sure. Go ahead. I am worth the buff of damaged marble. I am heavier than moldy molasses. I shut dark in closer habitats than these dank and dour caverns. I am made of foodstuffs and chucked change.
             I’ve had it; you’d better bet.
            Very much and soon I cram my bookend life with deceit’s pleasure and other horrid tortures of staying put. Or, dear Lord-- Oh me! Oh my!-- I am crass and so checked by thine crummiest yoke.
            PS- The girl of my dreams just went jogging by while I sat ogling the deckle-edged state of this tear-stained parchment. Grief? I’ve given up on it.
            Back and back to other forths, and so the swam of past strokes goes unnoticed, and germane to all points of surrender, I slip up faster than one might suppose. I suppose.
            Dear (I meant to put at the start) God, even with the sway of scrounging in abeyance, even in mightier squeaking-bys, even in heart-heavy and hand-light days, I am given to furor and mistaken-- or misplaced-- unlashed tongues of being lonely. Give me this? Well, grant it if thou may. All of my Jehovahs are marrying other Josephs for the umpteenth time. Be not too unduly harsh, for my sake, in the gruel, in the mucked care, in the salivating expectant doom of this 100-yard dash to salvation. See me as I both am and am not, as only you could, while I trustingly abide down deeper holes than even the saddest worms will ever know. But, you know me…so.
            All’s worse than some lighted spittle towards any better. So what’ve I so offended with some mere spilt verbiage? Not thine omnipotent omniscient hold on things, for sure. Not the beauty of a spurned bloom of belladonna lilies. Not the blessed or bleeding tributaries of bleaker holdings in thy name. No. I am off to worse things in the exiguity of time I no longer possess, but am possessed by. Trust me? Hell, what right have I got to call thee out for such inane feasts of promise? It is doting of the utmost class. It’s tripped and wired differently from all I’d cling to or be flung from the heights of.  Or, maybe I’m just as delusional as the rest of them. God knows, you know?
            Of course. Of course.
            Willing, be it as it might not be or should be, to shrill the echoing rise of grumbling from these depths, I plow holy in my native joy. And in the between of the toasting of sobriety, I un-take the planning steps of these humbling and fright-filled stages of hulking wonder and traipses of kudos-less courage. Readying my baser instinctual zeniths for an eventual plummet, I’m just browsing about in the lost nadirs of squandered inadequacy, not looking to buy or sell any wiser knowings just yet. So, whose propositions are being abolished now? A union of hybrid causes. A cloak of foreign magnanimity shoved deeper into the dingier holes in which one could possibly find the lost reportings of one’s more sad-stay-ominous climates. And then, as if pleading could ever matter, I find my worst sense in such stuff as, “If anybody’s got a prayer to spare, well, I could really use a few right now.” Nothing touches this demonic beast inside of me who kindles jealous flames for immolation. The devil’s got my tongue; I can taste him in every swallow.
            Bemoan. Bemoan. I know. It doesn’t suit me. I reek of ungrateful weeding and oil-soaked rags. The sorting of feckless jabs at made-up deities grooms the fits from these restless legs, this borrowed fashion of faith I hold to be crooked and shapely in the same sour breath of defeat-- which, of course, is distinct and uniquely my own; or perhaps does it somehow belong to thy puissance of random selection that collects souls for thee as ornamental knickknacks? Bemoan. Blah, blah. Bemoan some more. Holiest of crappy days. Dear, dear. I think I will start spraying the gardens for worms before the apples are all plucked or drop to rot. At least boredom can be counted on, arriving more consistently than threats through the mail slot. I am just verses chanted from a deserted beach at sunrise, goldbeater’s skin hammered to infinitesimal thinness, a rabid dog all out of barks, a stone, a leaf, a discarded losing lottery ticket, a worthless buried coin. Nobody is counting on me. I just know it.
            Dearest, dearest…whoever. Damn it all. Really, damn it all for now. Think of Emerson. Poor Old Ralphie Boy. I do. And because of this I can relate to thoughts such as these:
            ‘I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for thee, or any. If thou can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If thou cannot, I will still seek to deserve that thou should. It is all I can do.’    
            All I can do. That is enough, right?
            Oh, and before I forget, could I get a rain check on my passing? You see, I haven’t been late to supper in years, and my egress is still badly timed, and with all this freshly added weight sagging upon my already unpromising burden of exile…well, it’s just a giant no-go blown beyond any proportions I’d ever care to conceive of, here or in any other where. Well, my contusions of doubt proceed me, I guess. Thy name, written and never spoken, it seems is still hallowed around here, while mine whistles hollow as reeds in a dry wind. Proportions be damned. I am using disgrace’s wings to flap a bit closer to the moon.
            Please do not doubt my sincerity.
            (sentiments not included)
            Quite possibly yours and yours alone,