Cold Supper


We define

Who we are

What things are

And how it should be


For it is by these distinctions

That form

And nature

Are provided


We define and redefine

Our cities


Our lifestyles

Our choices


Like mad bookkeepers

Endlessly fascinated by detail





All meaning nothing

Except confusion and fear


Instead of eating

What has been laid upon our tables

We choose to believe

In preferences


And distinctions

And pack our bags

In voluntary poverty


As we set out on a quest

That is not required

And leave our blessings

Our providence

Behind on the table

To search for some Holy Grail


And along the way

We become fascinated with

What we encounter

Forget our quest

And believe the journey was our goal

Our duty

Our all


We only take a break

From the madness

To build the prisons

That we call ‘home’ and ‘possessions’.


Why have we turned

From our Mother’s breast

To formulated nonsense?


Why have we left what was free and holy

For what we must labor for

And gives us disease?


Why have we strayed?

From the free and abundant Table of God

And conditioned ourselves to prefer

To eat from dumpsters?


Look inside yourself

And go home to your feast, prodigal sons and daughters.

It awaits.