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yes taste is a matter of timing education not really important for you don’t learn this in a book how to feel good and what comes after feeling good a matter of timing and yes Man shall not live on bread alone but that other sweet manna of heaven-sent love when you say: Soul I love myself—and we all say it—this what stories are told about simple short stories the parables of a fool because none of this here do you take with you and who Who will have it? The question is flawed. The question: Why am I here? It ain’t why are WE here either. Because you can stand right next to them. Stand right next to someone who loved you. You can hear them say Hallelujah and Amen. Their wounded voice in the chorus of praise to God and the sound of clapping hands. And live with them. Live with them a while as if in your community. The question is flawed because someone can love you and then decide they don’t even like you. And are you experienced? Experienced with this? You see Jesus didn’t like everybody, but we say he still loved them. He died for them. He died for you. Yes who are the people in your neighborhood? Some see sinners while others see saints. There might be a child molester next door who’s good to his mother and profiled as such—he drinks too much and one night he castrates himself. There might be deer poacher next door who gives monthly to St. Jude’s. A lonely old lady who hoards with too many cats who just last week gave a homeless man a twenty outside of Sam’s. And that nice guy the guy who smiles and waves who’s the first to take your trash can in for you—maybe he watches internet porn all day. Yes who are the people in your neighborhood? Maybe someone last Sunday knelt at the church altar begging for forgiveness for what he did in Iraq suffering from post-traumatic stress off his meds fighting delusions demonic forces who will take a gun into your child’s school tomorrow. And you ask: Why am I here? Why are we here? To love God and your neighbor as yourself? Say that to someone who’s divorced with children as Matthew Malachi was his fourth time around to Texas having a drink with an old college friend. For even if you’re still friends (because of the children) there’s still a distinct distaste to it. You don’t look at each other the same way and something insidious pervades what’s instilled in all Western society that saying: It’s all about ME… what do you owe what do I borrow and like an all good things what’s imputed as righteousness is faith—you don’t have much faith in an ex-spouse. You’ve seen their faults their short-comings and whatever may have been extraordinary about them, well now—the honeymoon is over… good is good ‘til it ain’t good no more. Our flesh can’t handle heaven and that’s where love is. And the devil may say everything burns, but water doesn’t burn neither does blood—it just boils over into steam. Matthew Malachi had learned to hold his tongue with his ex-wife saying to his soul he suffered the impiety of injustice and someday Lord she will see the hurt she has caused me. Just as sure as she in her prayers before bed at night her first words to God in the morning as the naysayer to his children. But Matthew wasn’t home now. He was in Texas. In the community of hotel guests asking: Why I’m not there? So with Kenneth Dean he let the cat out of the bag:

I married white trash
No… worse than that. She’s confident…