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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

Cups

Life is given in cups: 
coffee, water, wine, 
suffering.
Coffee fuels the struggle to rise. 
Water fills our cells.
Wine filigrees our moments.

 These days, coffee is served in paper cups
with plastic lids made in a factory in hell. 
Dutiful demons cut slits in their tops
so a bubble forms for an instant, 
which seals off black napalm 
for just a moment to provide 
a false sense of security.

 Coffee lids are status symbols.
To slurp lidless 
toward the day 
is a clear sign 
you’ve no work ethic.
You aren’t going fast enough.

Wine glasses are lidless,
yet slow-sipped.
Some think the stemmed
glass makes it socially
acceptable to drink until
they can’t feel their souls.

 Suffering isn’t served like
coffee or wine, it just pushes 
through the door and pours itself
all over you.
Jesus endured with blood
running down his face. 

 In heaven, liquid grace is served
at spiritually optimal times
in World’s Best Dad mugs. 
The elixir is pure blue,
and if you get real quiet,
after it’s poured you’ll hear 
bald children singing 
it is well, it is well 
with my soul.

An Amputation of Materialism

I Hoped to Burn This Lent