It would read like a bad novel,
shades of Benjamin Button, David Copperfield,
Tom Jones, Mommy Dearest, Siddhartha,
a sound track of Springsteen, Gregorian chants,
BB King, Bowie and the blues.
Art. Dali. Rembrandt. Rothko
and the Hudson River school.
A childhood of isolation and wildness
in equal measure. Faith, peace and madness.
Love, betrayal, beginnings, collapse
and redemption, a warrior monk
whose battles are mostly within.
Bourbon. In small amounts.
Coffee at every stop.
Cities and countryside.
Worldwide travel. Local walks
with my nose in the flowers.
And autobiography I am afraid to write,
too sure of ruffling feathers,
but one I cannot wait to read
About this poem.
Yesterday, I stumbled on a series of novels about a Former CIA guy turned Lutheran Pastor who gets dragged back into his former life, kind of James Bond gets religion. When I mentioned it in my Facebook feed, my friends were quick to note the cultural dissonance of it all, and of me being interested in the series. (I love thriller novels).
Thinking on their comments this morning, it occurred to me that my whole life is one long example of cultural dissonance. Kinda fun, that.