From The Desk of David

They said I was late.
But late to who?
I bargain with bones,
gravity taxing my shoes.
Pharisee physics, charging fees for my stride,
Adam’s dust in collections,
interest rates on my spine.

Doctor’s den? Bleach and bankruptcy.
Clipboard carnivore—smiling wolfishly.
Receptionist radiant—sin in stilettos—
keyboard clicking hymns like counterfeit ghettos.
White coat prophets peddling lies on demand,
scalpels for sale with a snake in their hand.

Verdict? Digits.
Not nurture, not healing, not hope—just digits.
Numbers drip dirges,
charts choke in clichés,
grave plots sketched in actuarial praise.

They charged me rent for my ribs,
hawked my breath like backorder bread.
What’s the co-pay for courage?
The premium for pulse?
What’s the deductible on dignity,
paid in Job’s boils, Jeremiah’s sighs,
Isaiah’s coal still scorching my cries?

MRI moaned like monks in a crypt,
Bill barked like Behemoth, beast at my hip.
Insurance said pre-existing.
I heard: pre-extorted.
I heard: pre-exploited.
Translation? Too broken to fix it.
My sickness a system, my life a line item,
healers turned hustlers and they try to deny Him.

To the medical mafia:
You’re selling breath by the lungful,
billing broken backs,
profits stacked like golden calves in a temple tax.
Hospitals hostage halls,
priests of profit in plastic gloves,
prescriptions scripted like psalms rewritten.

Society kneels to speed,
brands my body defective seed,
obsolete covenant, malfunctioning creed.
But my slow steps? Sacred syllables.
My limp is liturgy.
My drag is doctrine.
Every stumble spits psalms with venom,
hallelujahs hushed but weaponized rhythm.

But grace—
grace gatecrashes, grins at the grimace.
Graffiti on gurneys, spray cans in clinics.
Grace tags my gait with a Pentecost flame,
Spirit synced to my stutter,
Glory limped with my name.
Heaven hobbled my hustle,
God rocked with my scars,
jazz riff resurrection
slouching bars in minor chords.

Christ co-signed my debt,
bled the balance sheet red,
shredded the ledgers,
canceled what kept me in chains instead.
The tomb was billed in full—
but the stone bounced the check.
Death defaulted, hell evicted,
grace flexed, wrecked, left the devil addicted
to debt he can’t collect.