The Eschaton: Upon Dreaming of a Barren Land, Bigfoot, and Kris Kristofferson as God
Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down
the barren boulevard,
an urban desert,
exploded skyscrapers gape,
disembodied toothless grins
stacked one upon the other.
At the neighborhood park,
mirth burned away,
the playground merry-go-round spins,
draped with the body of a dead child.
“They Killed Him and all the rest,” I wail,
haunted by the laughter of impish ghosts
wanting one more ride.
A final act of salvation, God walks
into the haze of my despair,
flowing gray hair parted in the middle,
beard neatly trimmed,
with the air of divine confidence
one expects in a deity.
He asks me to call him Kris, of all things,
and gestures at the world around us –
“Loving Her Was Easier (Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again).”
with more wrinkles
than an old prune,
and his eyes,
squinting as if he had stared
into a thousand fire plumes,
betray his distress.
“The Taker will return,” he warns,
“it can’t be stopped now.”
He beckons me to follow
and I wander a labyrinth of rubble,
The Pilgrim, Chapter 33 of an endless story,
seeking sacred refuge from endless horror.
Finally, a green oasis, sanctuary,
arises to swallow us whole
and I behold the sights and sounds
of creation’s gathered remnants,
frightened and amazed.
Have you ever heard?
arms wrenched from their sockets,
howl in pain as if to ask
Have you ever seen?
last of its kind,
wander aimlessly, looking
For the Good Times.
But Kris simply sits on a stump
of a forgotten tree in this forgotten Eden,
buries his head in his hands and sobs.
Only once more does he look at me,
as if to plead “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”
Even God doesn’t know what to do next.
Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends.
Note: Italicized phrases are Kris Kristofferson song titles.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
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