| Not one sparrow will fall
Not one hair strand will gray
Not one least significant bit
will flip or stray in all the volatile streams of data
or recombinant DNA
without…
without the cosmic nod?
Without passing through the conscious,
the conscious will of God?
Gray hairs still grow and the fallen sparrow may yet soar
winging wide over the earth, eschewing owl for sycamore.
But a rising tide of darkness sucks answers from the lips
and faith from the soul. The gene of domination pits
man against the whole. To find expression in the wild,
martyr-lust seeds the wind. Subtle spores of contagion
overrun defenses thin.
Behold the human resource at auction:
unrivaled wetware commands sweeping
sophistication for the harnessing.
Needs and drives marshal sensory metrics upward,
linking abstractions to familiar routes of excitation.
Passions and pathos queue on willful interfaces
preempted only by emergent logic.
Ominous pathways gel in the system
and harden in the fire. What survives is holy
to the cell, to the network, to the organization.
The call is to escape from the simulation of dreams
and bootstrap on the raw and feral power of true war games.
Self conception orders one’s own offense,
but consume the addictive contagion,
and controlled corruption smells of incense.
Specializations galore and glory
are filed upon the lowest orders.
Consider the disposable human delivery system:
Ordinary ordinance affixed to sacrificial torso.
But all smart bombs pale beside such biased targeting
and virulent perforation of the global psyche
made personal.
Behold the human resource:
mismanaged, abused and broken.
Infinite capacity imprisoned,
guts wrung around unapproachable travesties
splayed across years of bitter self-appraisal.
Leave it alone and it will conserve conscious
energy by pulling its own plug.
Now I enter this thought stream ready to thrash and flail.
I am the wrestler and wish God would enter too.
Wrestle me down and wrench me into understanding!
Whistle for wisdom and it will come!
Make me whimper in acquiescence to the unassailable
logic of design and purpose knotted to
the love-risk of expression and freedom.
Feed me the words of spirit,
that the promise of faith may begin
as an unconscious spark, but then leap
in bidirectional triumph across the synapse
parting You from Your children
and flash between them in dynamic
coupling, new and unexpected,
that the transcendent fury of communion
between souls within heaven’s bright kingdom
might endure for the seeking.
Behold, sons and daughters,
separate but together,
hurting and healing in the union of health.
The kiss of faith on the children’s cheeks
blooms latent awareness in their souls
of genuine God-love for Jews and Greeks…
For heaven’s reality course, one pre-enrolls
on earth, on bare essay forms of clay.
Have you given me this only to wrest it away?
©2005 Carl Pecinovsky
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