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I’ve been reading, recently
In the confessions of St. Augustine
About the nature of transcendence
And purity
About the desperate reachings
And fallings
In a search for morallity
That he couldn’t admit
Were simply a part of humanity.
I turned through pages thought inspired
That he created to reveal the accessibility
Of the divinity,
And was left waiting
For the catch- fraught with reality.
He, as a sinner, asked me to have faith
And his hope and my experience
Left me somehow faithless.
Dworkin told me about Tolstoy
And how even this man revered as holy
Couldn’t relinquish the sins of the flesh—
If even he could not hold tight to chastity
How dare we mimic apostolicity?
We ordinary humans become nothing but
Sick caricatures of Gods that we claim
To affirm and to do like—
In such an insult to Perfection,
We distort Their scripture to a size
We can fit in and claim
Ourselves righteous.
Even if we could seize perfection for a moment,
As an infant at birth,
A lamb before slaughter,
We’re daunted with the inevitable reality;
Eve and Adam fell.
And therein lies the problem of morality;
It slips through your fingers
Like air tumbles out the lungs;
You just can’t hold on for very long.
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She falls softly down from towering pedastools...
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