God's Tale

Don’t know if God will forgive me for what I do what I say, what I feel, for what I think is true when I stand down, I should be standing up fighting for my rights and all that jazzy stuff. But what calendar does God follow? What are his objectives for me? Are objectives selective as far as his eyes can see?

Battling 1000 positives over 2000 negatives, the putrid factor inside disease, the pitiful germs spread when we sneeze our insecurities into an open room for all to witness, but not believe that God blesses the bad as well as the good; should he not, is unknown. Those who lie with words should lie alone before God. We fight fire with fire in the human theater of Sloven desire. We expect God to forgive us year after year, be cleansed of all of our sins.

But we relent and do it all over again just to be dumb for the sake of being foolish in the most secret sense of being Jewish. The intentions sure are cruel, a rusted crown embedded with bloody jewels. Asking God to forgive when we forget is like Moses and Abraham eating pork and saying they don't regret the sweet taste of pig.

"Uh-uh," she would say. At times she's wiser than me, while other times I am strong. Together we are right, together we are wrong. Together we pray God will look upon our lives and give us a spare rib to plant and just grow. In our fertile lives, in our furtive loves, we do things for a purpose, we do things for a cause. To help, not to hurt but what you do for one is looked down upon as a factor to blame.

"For shame for shame," they shout when they are playing their game. The rules are not the same as they slowly burn you over the open flame. Should God forgive them for what they do to you or what you do to them?

To attempt to expose their hideous sounds the sugar melts, the rabbit has died. The catcher has dropped the ball. The king is dethroned in God's eyes. Should he forgive? Should he proclaim the words and the actions are stupid and lame?

The lessons we learn are too numerous to name. We should just shake hands and start again on a better foot. A stronger root. A man is a mensch in the stench of humanity. A woman is a woman in the antiquity of her mirror. A rash is a rat sitting on our arms.

Charming Charlie accuses; Bargy Margie calls for witnesses; Bunny's intentions are cruel; Catch cannot control the flow of his own drool. Four minus infinity factors standing upright like sexless whores on the streets covered in blood and hate.

God does not forgive when they choose their own fate. God will forgive when they shed their atrocities, one by one. Such a cruel choice. Such a cruel state. They are boxed in oil upon dirt upon rust looking grim.

If God were mean, he'd cast the first stone, give you the Jones, swallow your bones till you saw the first death of the sea. Life goes on, you'd better not compromise the art of the pity party he decrees. For pity is sad when the service you get is filled with much grief.

God only knows so you'd better turn over a new leaf, but for the sake of the quake, the controller is a big freak who commands when he stands upon grounds giving relief to himself, so he can see to others he is a sad clown who chokes on his life as he drowns in pity.

The rabbit is dead, the rabbit has died. For telling a man all that she knows despite the length of her pride, blind to the fact that her face falls to the floor. Begged for forgiveness, while milking a man who said more and then backstabbed him with teeth and her lies.

So the rabbit had lived, the rabbit she has died. The believer of souls adds up the tolls of one side. Before factoring in with whom she confides, but to listen before killing, then reviving the dead is suicide, for death has no mercy when choosing a bride, and the man in it all who thought he was doing her good didn’t think when he did not do what he could inside the confusion came the fear factor, so he died.

Came back to life with a bruised ego and a battered pride. So, God decides to forgive them all, with one multi-conference phone call, telling them to cast their hate aside. Gets them to think without killing the facts they hold like lemon cream pie thrown in the faces of those who refuse to compromise their bittered herbs for a fresh batch of rules for which they must abide. Bunny & Catch play games over the phone. Charlie & Margie are winners in songs and in poems.

Charlie ends the game when Margie yells, “Quit.”

God shakes all of their hands and then goes home.