G O T ⌾⃝ M E⌾⃝ F A U L T Y

POST: 0003
POETRY
10-19-02021

Trama got me faulty.

Am I such a herky-jerky mechanism? Have my childhood blows & woes left me poor equipped to the task of living?

Should I get support?

SSRIs &Adult Children of Alcoholics?

I learned to rely on no one but myself. I learned it too early, ya? I cooked so I could eat. I walked so I could get there. I worked. I got cash & I bought what I needed to get the f**** out.

Don’t ask, DO!

That’s what I learned. That’s what worked.

This isn’t working. Did I mess up?

I was pinned against walls by angry drunk men who promised my lonely Mother that they were not angry drunk men. Am I still pinned?

These materialists got me faulty too.

They tell me I’m organs & cells full organelles. I’m meat machine, & I fear I’m a lemon.

I am busted? Cause to be busted, I must have been working once. What was I working on when I wasn’t busted? I should pick that part back up.

Again, poorly equipped. Dead automata. The NPC stuck in the corner. Was this bucket of atomic parts ever even

? alive ? 

God the father got me faulty too now!

Divinity got outsourced before I got a taste.

Original sin for the win. I was broke down from the garden git.

Left an empty bucket. Of God, by God, an instrument for God's will?

God the Deadbeat Father, bless him, filled me up. Without his sweet seed I would not exist, without the spark of his divine

I am meat and dust.

So, I’m his combustion engine. A machine to burn God fuel’s in as a soul furnace. Filled with God to get-up-and-go towards God.

But I am never God, I’m faulty. God’s touch is pity.

These theories don’t hold up.

Why do I feel so holy, so horny, writing these words, running on these forest trails, sticking my head out the window of a moving car & shouting at a coyote I see stalking through gold grass on aside the road?

Why, in my most beautiful moments, do I feel so

w h o l e.

The only hole in my wholeness is the machine/sin/trauma story that I am not whole. Not holy. Not perfection flowing from a wellspring of perfection into an ocean of that same perfection too, I am perfection & you too, dear reader . . . perfection.

I am God’s vessel & I am cellular function & I am the bruised punk leftovers after all the mommy-daddy psychoanalytic blows have been dealt.

Right now, I don’t know which to care about less.

If I am a vessel for God, then I am God because only God can hold God.

If I am a machine, then I am goalless. All goalless machines are in working order. Their work is default-mode love.

Goddammit, if I must have a goal then let it be to love.

If my purpose is to love then I am not faulty because I love often. My broken bits are the shadows my bright love must cast.

Call it sappy, I love you too, you critic. Kiss me here and now.

I am not this god/machine/trauma. I am in love with god/machine/trauma. Let it last.