God in Seattle

I think if God stepped into Seattle, he’d stand on the Ave in black pants,

maybe a hoodie, maybe as a guitar junkie. He might smell

from all his walking. He wouldn’t need a tip jar. I think if I listened

to his song and stepped into his gaze, he would shake up

all the institutions inside of me.

See, I speak of freedom, and I dream of it

in lecture halls, elections, new years resolutions, shiny cubicles, friendship solutions,
cleaner cuticles, Real Change dollars, and wedding cake kisses where the grass is always

leaner.

But my words serve to smother my other lover, keep her undercover

in the dark of my soul arteries, the tunnels where my life pulse

beats to the rhythm of my own drum.

She is the institution who sorts neighbors and friends into folders, a tab for the beautiful,

a tab for the ugly, for those admired, for those who make me feel guilty, for those who

shop or starve, for those who smoke weed, for those who button up high, for those
worthy, those unworthy. Sometimes

I forget you share my humanity,

I deny that

the hierarchy starts with me.

Might I rearrange and blame and maim

the institutions, the churches, the societies, the people

who abuse, who cause me to loose

my dignity,

the seed still lies inside of me.

If I travel in one pair of sandals,

collecting dust in all my travels,

building blisters and wrinkles,

I can not, will not, let anyone
important wash my feet.

God in Seattle just might kneel to.

What if

God has a better drum,

and a better name,

and a dream

that still plays.