Lord, is it I? The Crucible of Fatherhood, the Beauty of Zion over Animal-ism, and the Survival of the Poet in an Economically based society

Here indulge with me in expression, or quickly look the other way oh friend! Perhaps this tale is too scary after all… too foreign to attempt an interpretation. Or better yet, flee, as it appears a “religious” narrative is about to begin, which could not contain anything of beauty or classicism or legitimate thoughtfulness (because anything with the word “Christ” in it must be by an ignoramus bigot so disconnected with reality as to make him an entire stranger to the beauty of expression on so many levels yet unveiled to his existence, right?)! However reader, recognizing the liberal license of these wanderings (though their substance be in many parts found in their casing rather than their substance), I do have some mercy, and I have elected to inform you when you are entering deeper tier of absurdity, as there are 3 such tiers in this narrative. Alas I’ve not shaken you yet so on we begin, if not only on the tips of our toes, with low yet tasty expectations: TIER 1 (the original and core message for which I’ve approached you (here is the first error of the text, the assumption that it will in fact be read); these tiers (now tears?) being a playful (yet appropriate and delicious) elongation of what was originally merely the following concept of tier 1):
I see even now in the beginning of being a father, that I must be pulled back time and time again, from falls into idleness, of not doing the whole duty. How quickly I turn away! Will ye also leave? Lord, is it I? I must heed the pulls of Christ on me which would cause me to stand again and again. Indeed I say, it is staggering. Most staggering, more so than I thought possible. Right when I catch the wave I’m hit by another which bashes me down onto the turf. I must battle to come to my senses fast enough to not drown in the awful tide. But lo, the God of heaven is there, and reveals the order that can be born from the disorder; or rather, that shows the deeper order which is hidden by the disorder. Avas, the strange power of Christ to accomplish the impossible! Shall we shame it, or call it unreal? No, but let us build a building on top of it. It is the sure foundation! The unseen is the true. The hope is the power. Shall we doubt, or leave the task? Get thee behind me Satan. I am wont to swim in deep waters.
TIER 2 (still a tier, though not as compelling as tier 1; tier 1 was sincere, tier 2 is thoughtful, tier 3 is lamentable though exists nonetheless, the author getting some rare pleasure out of it and thinking it not a crime to spindle on a bit in these, the recesses of the night; all this said, reader, I inform you that tiers 2 and 3 do continue in the theme to some degree of that tier 1, from which you already have an ill or pleasant taste – so you’ll either cease here, or hold my hand a little longer into another forest where we address ethics in another field, tier 1 parading parenthood and the Christ/power/emulation therewith, these perhaps lingering on about economy and poetry, if the latter still holds place in our vocabulary that is; this tier will also derive meaning for actions expressed in tier 1, however incomprehensible to the outsider looking in):
My species is called humankind, and in its victory, refuses the delights of the animal kingdom. It rather prizes the higher which come with the higher. It doesn’t relinquish hope of the ideal in exchange for purchase of the comforts of Babylon. It needn’t afford such a purchase. Why? This gets into the long term but the short term too… for one thing, Zion is beauty, and we refuse the path resulting in “sitting on the ground” in “baldness”. We are a proud people, but not in ourselves, in the collective vision of Zion that we must build up – we are proud of our King Jesus Christ, and could care less about the other kingdoms, their puny walls not built to last the storm. So I conclude my rant with the forbidding of pity, yet the license and use of indulgence of expression in the company of my friends. So laugh quietly should that be your reaction, yes, smile behind your hand good sir… let it suffice that the road I wander may be paradise to me. Or perhaps your quest has a similar feeling! My hat doubly then off to you. We now part with each with happiness to our several roads. Above all, don’t try and stop me!
TEIR 3 (we’re/me’re starting to wonder if this should be penned at all, yet our curiosity has gotten the better of us/me): Let the poet live, stone him not! Alas this is his fear, that economics will be shoved down his throat in the midst of an otherwise pleasant beautiful day. He attends to his duties of course, that is the theme of the lecture is it not? He struggles but, in the end, takes well care to all needs. But it’s not needs that he is worried about. It’s not needs that he thinks about while throwing his spade into the earth again and again. So when the sun goes down, think it not a crime for him to reflect upon the day during his supernal, however short, leisure. This stays off the pains like a drug that gives rather than takes. Now alas I truly must go, I’ve risked time long enough, as that, “time” is the track and measure… and even if you endite me by my tale itself, I flee, I flee! Not much you can do about that… What a splendid independence! Now don’t worry I’m not going anywhere or doing anything stranger than usual. I’m speaking in metaphor, indulging in fiction as an art, or perhaps just asking from a break from THE ECONOMIC SOCIETY of precision and order, derivatives of success! Doubtless the author is looking forward to nay-sayings of the skeptics, and otherwise dismissal of his work as ridiculous, all of this being critical aspects of this excitement. He just didn’t know when to quit did he? Yes, I must be going now, for some reason or the other. Demosthenes tells me there’s quite a nice barrel to roll back and forth across the street over there (lest we be accused of idleness) so here we go… [Exient (“exits”), the lad whom purchased cheer in a strange store on the other side of the valley, the one whom insists on continuing to the death in the delicious ignorance of his own strangeness] [reader scratches the head and goes on with his life, however, perhaps, perhaps in some remote region of the subconscious only daring a toe to pierce into waking cognition, and I reemphasize “perhaps”, remembering…] THE END