Praise

(part of the series; Love letters with Modest Mouse)

you were the dull sound of sharp math when you were alive, 

no one’s gonna play the harp when you die.

the irony of our last name strikes me today,

the name I inherited at birth - laudadio, lauda dio -

it means “praise god” in your father’s first language,

italian - a riot of gorgeous sounds I grew to love between 

my stooped grandfather’s natural stutter.

lauda dio, the epitome of roman catholic doctrine.

yes, praise god because it makes you good and righteous and holy,

until it doesn’t anymore, or never did in the first place.

after all, you cannot expand from loving, praising, admiring anyone 

who forces it out of you, who requires your dedication as a means to an end.

Better to praise the gods in our fellow stumblers, 

wanderers, strugglers and pretenders.

Better to love one another for the holy hell of a fight 

they face when simply opening their eyes every morning. 

Better to praise them for getting out of bed anyway. 

Better to love them when they just can’t do it that day. 

Better to believe that within every single person 

is the same spirit that lifts inside of you when fireworks burst, 

when thunder cracks, when your dog wiggles and runs and jumps 

and barks and smiles at the sight of you coming home.

Goddamn, if we could all love each other like that.

Better to understand that punishment is just another way to express selfishness.

No, it is not lost on me that you can only praise the god of yourself,

I felt the truth of it clock me in the heart 

on the day that fact became the means to our end.


poem - April 2012