whistling through me

I hear your voice reverberate
in my hollow skull
as I follow the fall line trail
sweat and blood and adrenaline
grunting and aching
I am expressing my yearning
with my body alone
and I am only alive in the small moment
the rest is a disingenuous composite
a tar paper and plywood existence
with the winds coming
and
I can feel the rain bleeding through
I am an erratic sterophonic mess
and
the wind blows right through me

I am not really trying

It has been famously said
that the Lord speaks to us through the poor
I think it is intuitive that the message of the devil
is conveyed by the damned
so many stories intertwined
predating science and modern media
stories expressing the essentials of our being
to those who would listen

The condition of the poor is a litmus test
measuring the success of the Church
or its glaring public failure

I own so much that could have been food or a house or a business
for someone poorer and closer to death and God than I
I ate so much food today
more than I needed
I bought more things today
I could have fed three people for a week
I spent so much money frivolously
that could have bought medicine
or shoes
or soap
for someone that has no shoes or soap or medicine
someone just like me
or my daughter
but with no opportunity
someone just like you
but with no money
and a hungry family

If the poor are fed and housed and happy
the Church has been busy
If the poor are hungry and restless and murdered
Christ's words have been vainly proclaimed
and wontly ignored