Some call it Jordan. Say we'll meet on the far shore.
We'll meet on the other side. We'll marry-up as Jesus' bride.
Well, I don't know about all that pillar in the temple talk
with these miles and miles of parking lots and argon lamps.
Some wish it on you. Some wish it to you, or for you.
I gaze through the beer light into that mirror there,
someone else's eyes staring back, someone I've never known,
and I wish it over. I wish it under. I wish it away.
So, I'm standing on the bank of this river here,
river of faces, river of cars, river of trust into the void,
watching it stand still as it flows. Watching it mock love.
By its very existence watching it mock the mocker.
Boiling, it churns up its debris to suck it down again.
Dredging up the dregs with the cream making no distinction,
roiling, toiling forward, relentless as if it were time itself.
All upon the surface comes to know the grinding bottom.
I walk down to the river's edge. It beckons me to come.
With each possessed by their woes, it calls me as a friend.
Its darkness deepens as it calms to a quiet pool for me,
inviting, enticing with the promise of peaceful sleep.
Some call it Jordan. I know it's their simple mistake.
Anything moving anywhere looks like heaven sometimes.
There's no crossing to the other side of this tortured torrent.
Some may call it Jordan. I just call it circumstance.