Ten Bad Beats With Unpaired Faces, #220

A boy sits in the pew
flanked on all sides
by an invisible God,
and by the trinkets
of that invisible God
who promises to hold up
against the coming storm,
to stay strong against
the turns in the river,
against any of the flops
this life can deal. A boy
commits all his being
to this God, to a faith
in the awesome power
that could only be
eclipsed by the love
one has, one God has
for a mother or father.
In the end, the boy
is disappointed, left
empty and depleted,
burned down to the felt.

The father and the maker
are eating dinner, dining
at each other’s table,
sitting together talking
shop, divvying up
the spoils of their winnings
once they take the land,
the clubs and the hearts
of the people they rule.
But, the father and the God
have made a terrible mistake,
forgotten the power
of like minded individuals,
men in the same suits
who sit close enough
to bust up a father and a God.
Were one to see the straits
ahead, perhaps so many
would not have to die.
But, convinced of their own
righteousness, the God
and father, press into oblivion.

We can all agree
society sees women
and men as different, as
unique in their own rights
for better or worse. But
would a God, who loves
all of creation equal place
the man above the women,
treat him as the high card
when she obviously has
much to offer? How hard
would one push if left
in a room with their wife
and their favorite deity?
Is it not the best move
to let the ones
you pray to mate,
and make which
golden babies
they can make?
We will take our winnings
and cash out with that.

Fathers and sons,
sons and fathers,
generations upon
the generations, years
and eons and tons
of artwork, mountains
of research and therapy
to find out why the boy
will always be a failure
to the father, and
the father, always
a disappointment
to the boy. We’re sorry
father that we never held up
against whatever enemies
or foes you placed us against.
We know you were only
trying to do good, to make
us strong where we weak. We
felt overshadowed, and hope
someday to disappoint
someone just like you.

They are not twins, not
born together, but still, after
spending so much time as one
you would think that would be
enough, they would be enough
for each other, that no matter
what came loping down
the road, the two of them
would be able to handle it.
And yet, such junk, a pile
of rags lying in the street,
an old matching wardrobe
is enough to divide them,
divide and conquer. One
must wonder if something
so innocent and sinister
can defang what should be
a monster couple, did
they ever love each
other to start, or was this
an arranged marriage
based on money and hope?

Mother and son, after
the divorce, after the scandal
and the tabloid articles,
after all the hoopla about
who cheated on whom
and who was to blame,
the long drawn out custody
battles, these two were
left to their devices. As
the boy grew, they grew
closer, her, the woman
who would never leave
and he, the man that never
betrayed. And yet, when
the moment of truth came,
they were not the uncrackable,
unstoppable hand-in-hand
couple. He would have
to leave for college and she,
as an unmatched woman,
had needs. Each would betray
the others for a time being.

What to call the unroyals,
the ones we have left, the best,
the top. On a scale of one
to ten, amongst the commoners
easily an eleven, and paired
with a God of the people,
a force nearly of royalty.
But even nearly royalty
is not royalty, and the king,
for all his ineptitude
still sits higher on the throne.
The queen and her sisters,
even the princes. But,
what takes him down
is none of these. Conjoined
twins on the outskirts
of town, whom he didn’t
know were any relation.
The news story could be
enough, and though he may
wish for a good outcome,
we all know what’s coming.

In the rags of clothes
given to him by a servant
and hid from his wife
and family, the king leaves
the castle to find men
of honor, and comes across
the mayor, learns of his
benevolent and great rule
and humbles himself to sit
and break bread with this
man of the people. He finds
the two make a great match
and could be good friends
were it not for their
unchanging stations in life.
Though they may hang
for a moment, tempted to hoist
a beer and celebrate, they
are too far apart in their kindness
and intellect, in honor
and birth, in the outcomes
that come between them.

It was not just slumming
for the Queen when she spent
a night asleep in the mayor’s
arms, that same mayor
the king shared a handshake
with. She shared more than
a handshake. It was not
slumming because the two
were old friends from school,
had known each other most
of their life. And though
their love is forbidden, both
believe that the couple would
have been better off had
the other chosen to risk,
life, limb, birth, vote
and found for one another.
He could have been king,
she could have been happy.
Instead they have this, a liaison
forbidden and too easily
made public, torn asunder.

My brother, my father’s son,
my infamous, dangerous
near twin. The ways I reach
for you and hope you reach
back for me is akin to the love
one shows an enemy, someone
more than a brother, one
you loathe to the very core
and could not live at all
without. Will you come with me?
Of course not. What should
I expect, that we two
could bridge the gap,
between the royalty
and the masses, the gulf
between sanity and lunacy,
the river between this world
and the world that inevitably
is to come? Brother, our love,
though genuine, will leave us
both unpaired, and both
worthless, and both dumb.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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