Each month, write a new collection.
My faith comes crashing in *after Tamara Madison’s poem Drop Dead"My faith comes crashing inLike a hammer raised above meReady to bash my brains inAt that instantMy eyes opened as I awokeTo a stranger with a hammerSwinging it down by his sideAnd walking away leaving meWondering why?My faith comes crashing inLike the sound of thunderWith a clapping cascade of breaking glass It was the periodIn the depths of livinghomelessOutside in a dilapidated garagewriting feverishlyWhen the storm broke above meAt the moment I was inscribing the wordZeus, instead of writing down Zion In the instant I mistakenly Made the pen move fromThe letter “i to the e”The applauding thunder came from under the canopy of heavenCrashing down upon meFaith came crashing in when the story Was told of a young girl and two of her friendsSinging praises and playing guitarCrying their eyes out as they worshipedPleasing Him for His Presenceto fill the room as the ceiling flowed witha cloud cover and a hand broke through the mistoutstretched to invite the innocence from theirtroubled soulsFaith came crashing inLike a lightening boltComing down out of the skiesIn the instant she provoked meto the point of hatred knowing I was cornered like a rattlesnake Ready to strikeIt was then, the palm tree Twenty feet high in the front yard was hit by lighteningDistracting the argument Like a divine interventionTo let the situation becomeLess volatileDefused by God HimselfThese are a few examples of howFaith comes crashing inFrom attempted murder to the soundof thunder and the lightening strikeOr like the hand breaking through The clouds drifting from aboveIn a room of singing praiseYou have to have faithAs it comes crashing inAll around us
Louis Beck drops (after tamara madison, “drop dead”).Louis is the only person I know who drops dead. And he does it with style. Walking the dog on 5th avenue outside his central park apartment. I always liked him. He was my college room mate’s father. He took me and my husband out for fancy dinners. He was generous. He was one of the first people to somehow name me Jewish, even though I clearly wasn’t. I saw my predilection for lox and told the relatives at some brunch what a nice kosher girl I was. So I’m glad he got do die standing in the swankiest section of town, with his dog, and his wife waiting for him upstairs. He died young — younger than I am now — I think. But he didn’t do that long slow terrible decay into decrepitude that my parents did. The loss of mobility and the accompanying depression. The weight gain. My father couldn’t fit into any of his Brooks Brothers suits and that’s what killed him — not the broken hip. I’m getting fatter too. I’m falling apart. I don’t want to die, especially since I’m questioning the existence of God currently. But at what point would you like to just soar out of your body, like Tamara’s mom does in that poem? Like a balloon. It’s better than not being able to walk or talk. When Louis drops dead at 60. I hope that right before he drops he looks up and around and sees the skyline, and the trees of the park. I hope he sees the street lamps and hears the sound of traffic. 5th avenue has a lot of traffic you know, and there’s a bus that runs all night up and down, along with the taxis and trucks. It’s a beautiful city. And not at all a bad place to die.