god

I was raised an Irish Catholic Jew,
growing up neurotically guilty
in the cobblestoned streets of Galloway,
an immigrant city of red brick factories
and granite grey churches and tombstones.
As a child, I was taught in school by nuns
while I learned lessons from rabbis on Fridays.
I was rebellious within reason
but with the arrogance of adolescence
I became a revolutionary,
and disavowed the bibles
whether Old or New,
seeking freedom
from the slavery of imposed beliefs.
I knocked on doors of many dimensions,
looking for answers
where I could not ever find them.
I studied Marx in the open to spite authority,
while reading the Kama Sutra in secret,
desperately wishing I could practice its principles.
I would have gladly killed the Buddha
but I never got the chance to meet him.
I took peyote and saw the colors of Eden,
but they quickly faded to black and white.
With the enlightenment of maturity
I stopped seeking
an opium I did not need,
concluding with a mathematical certainty
that I was a biological banality
of flesh and blood and electrical impulses
governed by the commandments of physics.

and yet....

with the certain destiny of obfuscation;
I feared the lions
and the screams of the ambulance,
the creaking floorboards
and the echoes of quiet footsteps.
In the depths of sleep I would hear Gandhi
outside my window
whispering about rainbows over the Ganges.
I endured recurring visions
of Hitler and Jesus riding a tandem in circles
on a highway littered with broken mirrors;
while nearby, Prince Arjuna stood in his chariot,
looking my way with a knowing smile,
proffering a chauffeur for free.
I felt the presence of Madame X,
the radical priestess dressed in black,
lighting scented candles and frankincense
in the darkness of my afternoon,
inviting me into the confessional
where my sins might flow like wine into water.
I was blind to the augurs, laughing at Apollo
while fervently yearning for the glory of Achilles.
I scorned simplicity,
but in striving for diamonds and gold
I was unable to see the beauty in my eyes
or my fingers as they moved across the pages.
I did not know the courage of Dachau
nor the wisdom of questions unanswered.
I disdained ethereal pursuits,
seeking truth in what is statistical and manifest.
The source of my river was glacial,
high in the crevasses on concrete mountains.
But in the end, the hardness was a facade,
a denial of anger for my deceased father
for his talking to them, not me.
I could not accept being ignored.

and yet again....

on a September break in New York City,
I was sitting on a park bench
on the Avenue,
gazing in awe at the skyscrapers,
the magnificent palaces of power and success,
where Queens and Emperors move bishops and pawns
across the veneer of ivory chessboards.
I was daydreaming, fixed in fantasy,
picturing myself in the penthouses,
higher than the clouds of Olympus,
sipping the ambrosia of wealth and luxury.
For a brief time, I was a Brahman
breathing the air of the Pharaohs,
immune to the capricious whims of the Fates,
intoxicated with the feelings that the answers were mine.

Unable to acclimate to such dizzying heights,
I was forced to look down,
where my eyes landed
on a man on a bench
across the way,
a schizophrenic alcoholic,
alone,
gesticulating wildly,
talking, making a point
in a loud aggressive manner
to someone who wasn't there,
whether friend or foe, I do not know.
I did not know the man
and I did not want to look at him
so I quickly turned away....

....to watch the flow of people going by.
There were actresses in disguise wearing sunglasses
alongside businessmen in cashmere coats and alligator boots,
working deals on cell phones and handheld computers,
unwilling to waste a second
on that which is not most important.
Mixed in the crowd were Manhattan debutantes
strolling leisurely in the latest fall fashions,
carrying Gucci handbags and baskets of Aztec chocolates
while walking newly engineered breeds of designer show dogs.
I was thrilled to see famous faces that will remain unnamed,
except for two that had me staring in disbelief;
as I'm quite sure it was just my imagination,
but I swear I saw Yogi and Joltin' Joe in the distance,
wearing pinstripes and signing autographs
for those blessed with charismatic connections.
As I sat in the midst of this wondrous world,
on this busy street,
in this sleepless city of bright lights and midnight dancers,
I felt I was a universe away from myself,
even as I noticed that the frayed laces of my sneakers
were untied.

So I can't explain why,
'cause I didn't do it consciously,
but my attention returned
to the man on the bench
across the way from me.
He was calm now,
sharing pieces of his dumpster lunch
with grateful pigeons cooing joyously at his feet.
I studied him,
curious about someone so lost in the Dream.
Everything about him seemed worn,
from his scarred knuckles and toothless smile
to his duct taped sandals and Goodwill clothes.
His portable possessions were in a garbage bag
inside a cardboard box on a broken steel cart.
He was a hard man living a hard life.
My initial revulsion gave way to sympathy
as I considered the strength it must take
to live on the streets in this unforgiving jungle,
where Darwin and Nietzsche are the unwritten law.
While I was thinking these thoughts
he suddenly looked at me with a quizzical expression,
which progressed into a penetrating stare
that took me aback,
as I felt he was trying to see into my soul,
where he clearly had no right to trespass.
But what frightened me most
was when I saw that his eyes looked just like mine
as though I was seeing them in a mirror reflecting back to me.
Transfixed in this dichotomy of fear and anger,
hours passed in seconds,
until I heard my brother asking me
what it was that I was staring at so intently;
giving me the excuse I needed
to break off the connection.
I answered simply: "I do not know the man."
and I turned away....

....in time to catch a commotion down on the corner.
A marital tiff had turned into a street fight.
A couple in crisis, seven years married,
were dissolving like salt in public view.
The wife, holding tight to her chinchilla wrap,
was ranting at her husband, screeching about infidelities,
hiding her fears with fire in her tongue.
He seemed paralyzed, struck speechless,
as the razor of guilt tore into his conscience
exposing it to the light of a thousand suns.
The crowd, its rhythm disturbed, walked around the pair.
Just then, two priests talking in Latin approached from the east.
The one was Father Lynch, the Vicar of Wall Street,
well known for advising stockbrokers on spiritual matters.
The other was Father Bobby, fresh from Divinity School,
a new face with new ideas to resurrect an old faith.
When they came upon the distraught couple,
the young priest stepped between the combatants,
handing each of them a fresh fig, saying in a low tone:
"There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed."
Their battle ended without resolve
as they recoiled in shame and embarrassment,
seeking the safety of shelter in the shadows.
Order returned to the street as the priests walked away
with the elder lecturing his protege
on the lack of practicality in Utopian ideals;
espousing the wisdom of compromise solution.
Crossing the path in front of me, he tossed a cigarette.
I watched it bounce and twirl across the pavement,
until it rolled to rest against the foot
of the homeless man on the bench,
who once again, by necessity,
entered into my consciousness.

His eyes were closed,
a pleasant look on his face
as if his mind had taken him elsewhere;
away from the drudgeries
and the visions of what might have been,
to dreams of a far distant Paradise
where he might rule as a righteous king.
As I looked at him
my eyes opened wider
and my thoughts rapidly evolved,
changing what I saw in this man,
this prisoner who had committed no crime,
condemned without trial
to the sentence of being invisible;
this untouchable pariah
outcast from a driven society
that worships
at the altar of the pyramid;
this leper who spread no virus,
this innocent who cast no stones,
this loner whose only transgression
was to remind me of what
I was so afraid to see in myself;
the wounds and scars of battles lost,
the broken dreams I could not reach,
and the broken contracts I did not keep;
the ravages of a life of loneliness
with deep regrets for love lost or never found,
and the avatars of ghosts forgotten
reappearing without a sound;
the fears of failure and success,
the dire despair of depression,
and the creeping dread of death;
along with a thousand other tributaries
flowing from all directions
into an ocean of fear
covered and camouflaged by an icecap
of arrogance and greed,
amongst other weapons
in my arsenal of self destruction.
As I gazed at this man
who had nothing to hide,
I was consumed with the knowledge
that I am condemned not for my sins
but by them,
an emotional apocalypse so strong,
that in the center of this city of millions,
I felt alone and terrified
as I turned my head away and cried
for this man I did not know.
Immediately, in a tree high above,
I heard a mockingbird crow....

.... as my thoughts were sucked into the turbulence
of the swirling maelstrom of my mind.
Reaching deep into my soul
I sought a redemptive light
so that I might see with a new vision.
Out of the chaos came the connection
that no matter who the creator:
he created him in his own image;
which logically led to the shattering revelation
that as I looked into the face of the man
on the bench across the way from me,
I was looking into the face of God.