Where God is

Don't talk about God.
If you're in the western world and you are of that
old class, still dealing with dogma and doctrine,
let me tell you,
it's over.

I'm quite prepared to speak for
all time.
It's over.

It's better to be real than right,
and every night terrifies me with new messages.

There are many stories,
and in how many of them am I?

And then there's the crucial one,
of the cross before which
all must come.

Well, I've waited there all  my life,
seriously looking for something real.

Let me tell you something:
you will find a voice of which
you could not dream.

Don't talk to me of God,
and about being right.

I have never been right,
nothing in my childhood knew about
right.

I am sorry for being right
every time I thought I was.

It's like springtide, rising, real,
spreading over things you thought
you knew.

If you have an idea of
where God is,
have a look into your early years,
and what was spoken to you
and what you received so much that it
echoes always in your knowing soul.

That will sort out your knowing quickly
when the first leaf of real autumn
falls slowly onto the skin of the sunset
you've always watched.

There's something really wicked about
being alive.

That's where you might feel
something much too big to be known
nudging your door's doubt.