The Chronic Ills of More


the alarm goes off
religiously.
every day.
playing the preferred show.
on the xm receiver.
loud.
as it happened, they were playing
that song about sex. or lies. or money.
whatever.
it is his favorite hymn.
he enjoys quiet time in the morning.
letting the loud take him.
to the hymn closing reaching
to turn off the alarm.
the next rides in on
the waves of the closing
notes intermingle
he recognizes the melody
about sex. or lies. or money.
it is his favorite hymn.
he turns it up.

He wants more.

climbing into the day
he smiles.
He knows.
it is friday. payday.
his motion triggers a switch
sending alternating current
to the ambient lighting
custom designed to him.
his employer’s financial institution’s
outsourced data center operations
group located in a another world,
where work is scarce
and wage is optional,
begins the payroll run
as he steps into his white washroom.
the run calculates his drain on the employer.
and his tithes and gifts to
the sponsored social programs,
the health programs,
the retirement programs.
the national defense
the international offense
all the obligatory charities.
the institution’s institution’s institution’s
computer faithfully gives his first 30% to his favorite
ministries, as he brushes his teeth.

the white washroom mirrors an image
of his favorite him
playing alone in his mind
as he tightens his new silk tie,
handcrafted by slaves,
his financial institution casts the net transaction.
smiling at the deal on the silk
tightening around his neck
as debtors begin their withdrawals
his coffee maker drips
a perfect cup of his favorite bean,
picked by illiterate children,
as he walks into the kitchen.

sipping from the commuter mug
his bank account is drained of
transient funds
he never sees
the children
or the slaves
before he arrives at the office
his cup is empty

He wants more.

sitting in a cube,
the hum of the a.c. and florescents
lull him into something passing for work
as he processes pixel arrangements

He wants more

escape from the trappings
of this vacuous wealth
long forgotten,
he sits back in his lazy-boy,
his favorite pew,
to watch his favorite
late night preacher
read from cue cards
about how much more he needs

He wants more…
so much more…
for this man.

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23 Responses

  1. I know this man…or woman.. ๐Ÿ˜‰ the constant knowing that there has to be more to this life…usually means one of two things..
    1. I need to get closer to Jesus
    2. I am homesick for heaven

    both leave me feeling empty and wanting more…speaking of more…my favorite coffee bean is calling me…I am easily distracted… I still need jesus everyday. love ya brother…always glad to read whatever you write…it is a gift you have!

  2. sounds more like he didn’t get any/or wants more out of a relationship!

    What does this have to do with Jesus?

  3. Ric, that is a great poem. I does perfectly capture the need in all of us for something more, more than money, a job, High Def TV, 2.5 children. They real journal life is all about finding that “more”.

    The one thing I am confident about is that when we find our “more” we will know it.

  4. Hey Darla, thanks… that is the gist of this one.

    Cat, the He who wants more can be read from different perspectives… like Jesus.

    Thanks Ed. You and I are so often on the same page of music!

  5. You’ve said it again.

    For me.

    Thanks.

  6. you’re welcome…and thank you.

  7. WOW! I’m amazed and in awe. I love this and think every single one of has been there. Hopefully most of us wake up and hear God’s call in our lives, but sadly most don’t.

  8. Thanks Kim… yeah hard to believe.

  9. we’ve settled for what we’ve been sold. getting all we can and sitting on our can. how much time we have wasted.

    ric – i love it when you write like this!

  10. Glad you liked it Tam.

  11. Hi! I am visiting…and leaving you comment luv! do ya feel the luv!?

  12. Dang. That was crucial.

    “his financial institution casts the net transaction.
    smiling at the deal on the silk
    tightening around his neck”

    That was my favorite part.

  13. Haha, I think I still have that tie! Thanks William, glad you like.

  14. am I in your spam? dang ole dang ole dang ole spam

  15. You were… now rescued! Thanks for the luv!

  16. Man that is just….great. I love it. You have just summed it all up.

  17. Thanks Christian. Can I still tweak it here and there? I always drag my feet on these things … its been in my drafts for a few months in various stages of incompleteness.

  18. No. It’s done. Complete. Finito. Leave it alone.

  19. Dang. I knew it was too soon to post it. How about replacing this line: “as he processes pixel arrangements”

    with: “as he rearranges pixels into profits” ??

    There, this draft is now complete. Now I can get started on the next draft.

  20. I can’t escape the feeling there is something of a timeliness and timelessness about these Chronic ills ๐Ÿ˜‰

    Unlike the Arts of sculpting or painting (or at least they do it to a far lesser degree, i think), the Artist who uses words to describe reality is often as modified (redrafted) by the redrafting over time of his original thoughts as is the work he creates – it is a two-way process. It is unlikely to ever reach the desired level of ‘perfection’.

    Very cathartic and illuminating work though. ๐Ÿ™‚

    <B

  21. oh – almost forgot…

    given the recent economic situation how sure are you about those pixellated profits, as opposed to the illusion of profit?

    ‘As he pushes pixels for a prophet’ perhaps? ๐Ÿ˜‰

    nice alliteration huh?

    <B

  22. Thanks Love. I keep wanting to change everything. It is never quite right. And the alliteration is great… especially if we keep the “perhaps” at the end … then ‘profit’ would fit again.

  23. […] by our friend, Ric Booth . His poem’s not pretty, but it’s very convicting and not too comfortable. At least it […]

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