Frustration

I find my conscience
exasperated by pretty words
pushing forth preconceived notions
vehemently like a truckload of shit.
Rhetoric but a poor persuasion
of an assumption we do not share,
from an ethic founded in feelings.
I think the lot absurd.
So my theology turns toward the sea.

The assumption capsizes upon itself.
Weak stilts standing in a sea of logic,
crushing forth upon its foundations.
And a poor drunken sailor,
with whiskey and spit in his beard,
cries into the gale,
"We will live in the tension!"
as the pier collapses upon his body.

Mouthfuls of salt and foam and poor reasoning,
fill in the lungs of a drowning man,
gargling about eloquently like a fool,
as if articulation builds for mighty foundations.
If the pier reach to the vault itself,
and run the length of the surf and around Oceanus,
but cannot stand at the first break of waves--
well.

The darkness swallows the man,
as he swallows the waters,
But his mind regurgitates memory--
of the day the pier was built.
The painter's harlequin costume and demeanor,
the engineer's instruments and blueprints.
Alas, we confused their roles!
But the painter's engineering was quite pretty.
And the engineer's painting was methodical.
So now we drown.