No Good Reason

Another song. This one I made two years back. Lyrics and discussion below:

I’ve never seen the sunlight

So why should I believe

that these clouds will ever leave

why should I believe

that things will change

why should I believe

that things will ever change

If all I get is a moment

That’s enough to make me free

I’m fighting off the demons

that say what was is what will be

There’s no good reason to trust you

And there’s no good reason to hope

There’s no good reason to love

There’s no good reason

No good reason

I wrote this song sitting in my bedroom on a cloudy day, musing on miracles. “I’ve never seen a miracle” was the first thought that crossed my mind, “and why should believe that I will ever see one?” I started associating my anger and frustration in not being able to see a neat, tidy demonstration of the Divine to the feeling of despair, specifically a despair of faith. “If all I saw was one tiny glimpse” I thought, “I’d be satisfied” (which, of course, probably isn’t true.)

Crossing over from the realm of miracles to faith, the song ends up really being about hoping against all hope. “There’s no good reason to have faith, hope, or love” — especially in the face of things like pain and suffering. In darkness, it’s hard to see any form of reason as good. In fact, it’s  impossible to see anything at all.

But how do you hope for light if you’ve never seen it? Or why should you hope for it if you don’t even know what it is?

In other words, how can you desire it if you don’t believe in it? And how can you believe in it if you haven’t heard of it? And how can you hear about it without someone to tell you? And how can someone tell you unless they have seen it themselves?

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news.


Badly Bound

The Rich Young Ruler turned away unhappy

not because he served no god;

his devotion and his zeal were great

he had religion in his heart

and men are made

by their religion

but his religion

finally unmade him

for he made his maker

into his own image


We tell our friends over coffee,

with adamant eyes

and breathy seriousness

our work is our passion

we are changing worlds

shaping lives

good at what we do

and so, made to fit our toil like a glove,

we wear our gloves

on our right hands

in public

and at dinner parties


but we don’t wear them; they wear us.

down cast and heavy laden, our yoke is hard

our burden is wet wool


Where is freedom?

We don’t have it

religion either—

and think this makes us free.

but nakedness is just as bad,

no religion, bad for winter

wrong religion, bad for summer

shivering, sweating,

indifferent the sun stands judge

over self-made men

who make their maker

in their own image


Kyrie Eleison,

look at me

naked from the waste down

the rest of my body strangled

half miserable

full of pride

a Carnival attraction

for good catholics

to gaze upon and laugh.

crossing themselves they say a silent prayer

“Lord, keep me far from folly”

so I pray for them, a patron saint of fools,

We are bound!
and through our binding we had found
the Fundamental,
all our bearing
eating, drinking, clothes for wearing
syllables and definitions
symbols, carvings, prohibitions

Love and language hanging from eternal thread

Feigned release!
We’ve escaped old walls of peace.
This continental
still revolving, cannot loosen
chords tied round our neck and hands
No one to meet our strange demands

We act as though the living were the dead

Come together!
Cursed in any type of weather
For sentimental,
we are pining
for woolen coats with linen lining
And wearing them upon our head
We shiver, burn, and lie in bed

We mix our wine and throw away our bread

Come, O Jesus, bind us right again”