My Goodness and Warmth

I wear the colors of a whining monarch, His most fervid protector and
holder of his trust. I change His damp linens and when He slays an
angel I am the one who salts its white body and see it entombed. For
these reasons, He considers me His beloved servant, prideswollen at
the sight of me in the distance, adorned in His good colors and
bearing His standard.

He is pathetic and it endears Him to me further. His knotty red
knuckles and quivering eyes are mine to serve and I cry for Him when I
scrub the garments it is mine to wear. Others claim to serve strong
monarchs with tight fists and unmovable hearts in their chests. I wear
my colors because they are mine to wear and I know that these others
are bad liars, bad liars who serve rulers as weak and unworthy as mine
and in their lying eyes I see the same loathing and love that fill
mine. He will be staring into those eyes as he dies in my arms and my
death will be in weeping.



I haven't got the time today to listen to problems from all of the people. The way it looks now, I won't have time for several months, and by that time the problems will be new problems and some of them will be gone and some will be worse and I still will strain for empathy. I haven't seen evidence of it.

That's why I wear this jacket with its screwy zipper, and these glasses with their incorrect lenses, and these briefs which pain my testes, and this hat with its obviously misspelled word. I offer this of myself to those who I cannot care for, and it is payment enough. Their pity, unwarranted though it may be, offers a validation which far outweighs any effect my imaginary empathy might have.

So suck on that, haters, and please: when you inform me of the mustard stain on this jacket with its screwy zipper, be tentative and patronizing. Hold me in your fat eyelids.