Forging a Sacred Text

I would be a forger
of the highest
order & instruct
the flowers at the border
that these words come
straight from tongue
of God into my own.

My own tongue.
God & me, kissing
like that, His saliva
alive, oh, an ambrosia
of inspiration,
of spiritus, of word
breathed in my lung.

But these are only words.
Only mine.  No more
divine than blood.
Idea forged in reckoning
of holy wind, a Book
of Respiration breathed
into my breast.

Even pretense can
invigorate.  I am
as a preacher praising
to the flowers at the gate
a god who comes
& goes.  Like a lover
who we sometimes love
& sometimes hate,
a necessary fantasy
inspiring the sacred
lays that shape
the outline
of his sacred grace.

white party balloon bouncing on the sidewalk toward me downtown pdx 7-20-14

i have learned i want
to be happy here
at the middle of life's road.
the late middle.  who am i
kidding? upsettingly close
to the end.  i have learned
i want to be happy, that is
something.  something more
than before, when misery
seemed a sport, the body
so plastic & filled with juice
de vivre that happiness seemed
unseemly.  it's like this balloon
bouncing down the sidewalk on a breeze,
a cannonball careening through my ranks?
or just a balloon, its only meaning sorrow
for the kid who lost it, & pleasure
because it's pretty, even though
it's partly deflated, plain white,
a bit dirty.  it seems happy,
bouncing on the wind
before it pops.