Hamburger Frying in a Pan of Grease – a poem by John Ian Bush


Part One


I write this as I sit at my kitchen table and watch my hamburger fry in a pan of hot popping grease.

I think now of mortality.

I think now of God and Hell and Heaven and Meaning, and how Meaning may be Delusion, and we all may be meat patties frying in it.

I think now about how I’m confused about what I have Faith in.

I think now of the world, where some days you wake up and find no Humanity.

I think now of being born.

I think now, “Why bring Children into this world.”

This world, where we all just get bored of everything and if we’re lucky die peacefully in our sleep in old age.

This world, where in old age we lose our hair and teeth and control over our bowels.

This world, where we worry over bills and if there’s a Heaven or a Hell or if the Devil is on your backs or looking over your shoulders, or if the Devil is a delusion, or if Mark Twain’s right and we’re all the Devil.

This world, where we search for Joy and Satisfaction and Meaning and Truth in churches, schools, bars, friends, family,

whore houses, sex, sex, sex, drugs, shopping malls, therapy, internet porn, back to church, a new church, then back to the bar, sad.

This world, where we’re all born to die, die, die, die, die, die, die. Every last one of us.

This world, where a monk can burn himself alive to protect his faith and be forgotten and I sit here unsure if I can have faith in anything at all.

This world, where perhaps there’s no real point to talk about The After Life, Existential, Morals, God or Truth or Right or Wrong because in this world there’s no way to prove anything but numbers and facts, and if we keep on thinking about the other things, these things that we drive ourselves mad trying to figure out with no real hope of resolution, we’ll all end up lying in the grease of the Delusion of Meaning and frying in the metaphorical pan that is the world while being seasoned with Thought and salt.

But who am I to say any of these things?

What do I know?

Who am I, some fool frying a Burger at noon on a Tuesday.

Who am I, some confused son of a bitch, one hand on a pencil, the other with its thumb up his ass.

What have I given the world other than a couple short stories and poems?

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

But the smell of fraying grease makes my stomach sick.



Part Two


Fuck it!

God, no God, meaning or only endless numbers and facts, let me be a frying burger!

Let me believe that there is a Right and a Wrong and propose.

Let me believe there’s Joy and Truth and true Beauty.

Let me believe Tenderness.

Let me believe that I can die old and happy.

Let me believe in Satisfaction.

Let me believe that pain makes you strong and isn’t just pointless suffering.

Let me believe that we are more than the sum of our skin and bone and organs.

Let me believe that we’re more than a bodies of chemicals and blood and breath.

Let me believe in the Kindness of the human Soul and its Tenderness.

And let me believe that if there is a God, he sees this kindness somewhere in all of our souls and it makes Him smile.

Let me believe that if there’s a God, he knows me and understands me and he’ll let me go to Heaven.

If I have faith in anything it’s in Human Kindness and Human Weakness, and perhaps that’s meaning enough.

I hope to be like Ann Frank and Buddha and  think that all people have good souls if you dig deep enough.

I hope to be  like Jesus and  be magnanimous and loving.

Hell, one day I’d like to have a kid when I’m not a mad mess of disorganized thoughts, and when I do, I hope to have enough faith in the world not to pity my child for being born.

I’d like to put all this to rest now.

After all, if I’m a frying burger, we’re all fraying burgers.