scratchy beings

some are smooth, some are rough, some are never good enough
for themselves, or for photo books on shelves.
some of them begin as diamonds and end as dust.
some of them begin as roses and end as dust.
some of them begin as kittens and end as dust.
some of them begin as dusty old souls and fill up rolls
of film with all the dusty things that scratched their eyes.

and then you have the large, unexceptional mass of men
who spend their lives as graying, scratchy beings.
for about five years of their adult lives
they run around town playing musical wives
getting so drunk that they don’t care where they are peeing
and drained of their youth long before the truth
of their scratchy being manifests itself
and they figure out how to keep and cultivate wealth.
which is all to say, that most men spend their lives gray
and scratchy and rather unattractive–middle-aged and kind of thinning–
paunchy and pudgy, and wearing fanny packs and cargo pants
and mostly invisible except to their similarly attired dads
and quiet, dismal wives who live their lives in wordless wonder;
and the strange creatures they crawl under during love making
and other unspoken things
that are done with these graying, scratchy beings
who play poker, go fishing and smoke cigars with fellow scratchy friends,
occasionally pooling their meager resources to charter fishing cruises
and dude ranch adventures.
some would argue that these are the kings of the world,
others claim that the world is run by their better halves,
but nobody really knows, unless you would believe
that the One up above whom most of them worship
is also a graying, scratchy being
with a cosmic fanny pack and divine fanny pants
and a quiet, dismal wife He calls the human race
who cowers furtively afraid to tell Him how unhappy they are to His face,
but of course, some of them do,
some of those smooth ones who were deprived of their diamondhood
before it had hardly begun.
but the ones who believe in a graying, scratchy God,
and the ones who believe in nothing at all,
find themselves after one single shiny day for to live and to lust,
spending a few years being scratchy and gray, having and holding,
and then eternity being dust.
so perhaps it might be more accurate to say,
if our God resembles us
then He’s neither scratchy nor gray
in his state of being
he’s not smooth or new or smells like a church pew
but if our God resembles us
then he must be mostly made of dust.

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