In Praise of Marsh Hyman

Jan 09 2013

Dear Lord, infinite holy designer,
remind me that while you set the sun
into motion in an unmeasurable space
you also are the person who created
the second, and the millisecond, and
Nalgene jars, and accidental scars,
pea coats and Hondas and Converse shoes.
Nothing escapes your purview.
Not even I, when I feel so estranged
from the entirety of the world:
against violence, against football,
for reading, for poetry, for the long-term
against lust, against stealing music.
You made all of these impulses,
these “ethics,” these decisions,
all ways to follow you.
Sometimes I break my own decisions
and join the crowd because I can,
so that I can feel like a part of
something. To not be standing on
Javert’s bridge, singing at stars
not that I believe in his song,
but because I so thoroughly don’t
and that leaves me washing dishes
cleaning house, doing favors, and
a variety of other things that no
one will ever know about, as I am
trying to cultivate an anonymity.
I want to remain humble always.
Unsurprisingly, it’s pretty boring.

And the gifts I have clang against
this desire to become faceless,
those gifts to write and publish
and ever be known by more people,
your voice more important than
everyone else’s. That’s power
and fame and the ability to move

or is it?

and so I wander about in my mind,
publishing and yet not publishing
being honest but not letting them
know that I am here; and I am here.
Ever shooting myself in the foot,
for I might feel a little less alone
if other people who felt this way,
could know that I feel like I do.
Dear Lord, who created creativity,
let me tell what I can do and let
it not turn me into an egomaniac.
For someone invented the t-shirt,
the Nalgene, the second measurement
and all that other stuff I said,
but I don’t know who did them.
Anonymously, they made my stuff.
Praise to them, and praise to you,
who keeps us in check and yet shows
that you speak through whom you will;
speak, even through small men who wander
afraid of their own voice, and soul,
and the weight of their thoughts.
Praise to you, who bore that weight,
long before I ever weighed it on myself.

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