I Have a Plan for God’s Life

I keep getting these

Texts telling me

That God has a plan

For my life. Never

Mind the question

As to why God has

To spam my phone

To get my attention,

Let’s stick to the whole

“Plan” part. Without

Going into detail here,

I can say, looking back

On my life, that the

Idea of an all-knowing

And loving creator

Scripting the part I’ve

Had to live is far more

Absurd than the notion

That there’s no sky daddy

at all. And I don’t

Mean absurd in a fun and

Wacky way. Unless,

You’re one of the very

Lucky ones, you know,

if you’re willing to look at

your Life honestly. What

I’m Tempted to text back is

That I have a plan for

God’s Life. And that plan

Is to force him, her, it, or

Whatever, to suffer every

Indignity and horror that

Each and every one of “his”

Sentient creations has had

To face: from living in a state

Of ulcerous stress, all the way

Up to torture, rape, and murder,

Not just the pain that humans

Have had to endure, but let’s

Work in the misery of the

Little bleeding piglets crying

Out for their mothers on the

Factory farms’ killing floors

So the duped deists can

Munch their bacon. And of

Course, so many

Other sentient horrors

Too innumetable to

Begin to list. One

Crucifixion, which didn’t

Happen as advertised,

Wasn’t enough.

 

— FB

 

 

 

Strong Enough

I can’t stop

Thinking that

Some might

Not be

Strong enough 

Or wise enough

Or dumb enough

Or rich enough

Or lucky enough

To make it

Through.

The forces and

The fates

Can be

And often are

Too much.

I can’t stop thinking 

About Van Gogh

Pulling the trigger 

With trembling

Finger

After Love

And religion

And art had

Failed him.

Then there’s

Hemingway’s

Brain splattered

Against the wall.

And I’m haunted

By the video

Of a Factory farm pig

Shaking with terror

On a freezing

Metal floor

To a soundtrack

Of slaughter

And I can’t stop

Knowing

That a friend

I’ll never meet

Suffers near-

Constant headaches

And I can’t stop

Seeing the face

Of a dancer

Whose illness

Mystified the

Doctors until

She decided to

Sleep it off

forever.

Then I consider

Those who will

Read this, with

Their dead-end

Jobs and hope-

less loves, then

Something like

Strength rises

in me and  roots

for them

And me

And you too

To somehow

Find enough

Strength

To make it

Through.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

* See my novel Mail-Order Annie on Amazon.

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