Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
They will be filled
with the radical ancients.
And yet we hunger and eat-
but our palate craves cardboard and drugs.
False to the body,
Narcotic to the mind,
Gnawing to the virtues.
Ingestion. this came from a million miles away
separated from the earth by ten processes.
Flew through the hands of ten businesses.
Flew through the air for ten hours.
All for me- glutton of all of history-
So proud to be eating that which one can hardly call food.
hunger and thirst, and eat… eat even before I get hungry.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.
we are the rich.
and the poor
and the indebted.
We are the have-too-muches.

We are the mutants. our lives are an inseparable blend of skin and steel.
man and machine.
A million conveniences
to fragment us.
Next invent the mind-saving device: Silence.
All these to keep me to you
keep me from you.
artificial insanity.
We have created an army of metal mosquitoes
that bite from every angle,
infect us with hybrid diseases.
Go home.
Sleep.
Rest.
Cook a meal,
Then eat it.
Talk.
Not to a machine.
Talk to a person,
and listen.
Talk slowly.
Chew slowly.
Think slowly.
Walk slowly.
Talk about your true feelings.
you are bitter about your life.
The promised mansions they said you can afford,
you can’t.
Or you get in there and
can’t afford to heat them.
Be honest with yourself.
you’re cold and naked and alone
Even in your expensive rags and busy days.
Talk without hiding.
no machine, no title, no degree, no bank account, no job
ever substituted a well-developed character.
Did you hide in the basement while the tornado came?
You should have been learning to face the storms of your life.
Grace still waits.
I don’t see it.
Do you?
Can you have hope for me?
Or is it my turn?
Vacations don’t renew anymore.
Days long past- too far for remembering except with tears-
where the family did something together,
when the family was even together.
Before destruction.
But not yet despair.

Blessed are the peace-makers.
For they will be called children of God.
Peace to you.
Peace of Christ to you.
You are drowning in paper and pagers.
I see you- you are still breathing.
Same breath, in and out, in and
Out.
Peace to your mind-
One mind
That does not answer to bosses who tax you
beyond your income,
That does not splinter with infinite choices,
That does not collapse under the weight of the Information Age.
Peace to you- or to your heart…
An old myth, the heart, about which people used to care.
Now it’s just- see a doctor, lower your blood pressure.
There’s a pill for that.
For everything.
Not the real heart.
The real self.
The piece of information lost in the shuffle.
Who are you?
What did you dream of when you dared to dream?
I think you forgot.
You can’t even remember what your scheduler has you doing on Tuesday.
Heartbeats can’t be heard unless it’s quiet.
But it’s never quiet.
At first it was just that way,
Now we make it that way.
Peace to your heart, in stillness, you will find it, and
find you.

Peace to your body, riddled with dysfunction.
Maddening diagnosis;
Dis-ease hides in nomenclature,
And ancient paths to healing have been paved over and forgotten.
But you, peace to you, who are not yet wasted away.
Dirty your hands in the garden,
If you want to save yourself.
And don’t wash them before you eat.
Leave the dirt.
Don’t you know, we are dirt.
Dirt.
As the sun sets on your life, and gray grass grows in your upper fields,
You will feel your love for the dirt,
if you are ready,
if you know how to lie down,
the dirt will welcome you, and
you will sigh in rest.















PORTRAIT OF GRIEVING
By Jarod Osborne
Copyright by Jarod Osborne, 2006  ¶ 8:50 PM