The Gutter

The conception. The long nine months. The birth – the lone God-gesture only mothers can perform.

The nurturing of a new life. A woman giving her body, in return for heavenly pain, to become a mother. The prophetic transformation.

From womb to lap.

Day and night. Night and day.

The first word. The second.

Crawling.

The first step. The second.

The first smile. The laugh. The giggle.

The tooth.

The clap.

And then: death, right before her eyes. And an audience. A crowd. For the tragedy crafted by a thousand hands. Hand in hand.

The brand that couldn’t place a manhole. And the king who must reign. And the amendment. And the law. And the system. And the brothel. And the pimps. The mayor and the ministers. The secretaries and the bureaucrats. Thoo!

From cradle to grave. A snap.

And the mother: her trembling voice. Her falling heart. A dark night. And a gutter into eternity.

Such are the days, and such are the nights when nothing deserves attention. Not the 240 million. Not the billion-dollar scandals. Not the executive, not the legislature, not judiciary. Not the chief and his desires and his adamance to be the God.

Nothing.

I wish. I hope for an ending. With an earthquake or a flood. Whatever. But this may end. This world of men with greed for power and lust for bodies and chess of dead bodies – may end. And we all may have cancer. And the gods here and the God up there may finally be happy forever.

And ever.