One Tent
I’m sick of people—and I’m sick of things—says the Lord Yahweh every other line
I feed them and they roll in their fat—I trim them—do they repent?—they curse me
They squabble and bicker and fight—they pretend to be clean but love flesh, eyes, show-off
You don’t listen! You don’t follow what you already know! And now you want more?
“We don’t know how we choose!”—Boo hoo—“So we choose to our liking and suffer!”
Why do I not teach you how you choose? I’ve already said it—I’m sick of people
And is it me or is it a poet who only thinks he’s a poet who puts words into my mouth
Angry am I—with cause—Disgusted—Long-suffering—Not giving up—I know what can be
Is it worth it? Two shanks snatched from the lion’s mouth when everything else is lost?
Two shanks or an ear and no brains cuz what does it matter? You people don’t think!
Woe to the self-assured! Woe to the timid—and to the rich and poor. I’m sick of you all
“Unfair,” you cry? It all goes back to me? What consequence if I taught you how you think?
Two shanks. Two goats. Two camps. Two tablets. Mine to you. Two altars?—north and south?
One tent—one God.
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