a hymn of mad props

if i could sing a hymn
it would be praise
except i would look for a similar
less religious word
i might say props
i might say mad props
i might say a hymn of mad props

and my hymn would attempt
to enumerate
every good thought or thing
i ever accidentally had
or saw
or will

and in it would be contained
remembrance of simple happinesses
which have dotted the rushing timeline
of this improbable and amazing feat
a lifetime such as this

it would contain involuntary
irrepressible laughter
it would contain vistas
blinding in their splendor
it would contain random kindness
made for the rush and the crush
and the kick
it would contain quiet moments
that break the rush of time
with iron-walled presence
it would contain the addict
locked in desperate battle
with his addiction
it would be replete with dances
all the soaring leaps and twists
and rolling somersaulting landings
i have wished were my limbs
and may have mistaken they were
but for watching them
it would contain the song
of the toddler
finding his voice

if i could sing a hymn of mad props
it would contain that kind of sad drama
so achingly perfect
it spears the heart open
and softens every perception
with a wide warm wash and glow
it would contain every sorcerer's phrase
timely spoken
that rent the veil of the me
i can't stop thinking about
it would contain the stories
of every flavor and culture
from which the hero emerges
and conquers all
by conquering self
it would contain my mother and father
my sister and my brother
and all those ordinary saints
who have filled that role
from my first breath

if i could sing a hymn of mad props
it would contain that pan-being phenomena
friendship
it would especially contain
the faith and trust of any person
hazarding their fortune
on Other
the only investment of any kind
that is worth anything
in the end

and it would be a hymn so large
so as to include without exception
any is that is

and it would be a hymn so beautiful
because its contents were so worthy
the entire universe of a mind
which may be touched
and moved

and it would be a hymn
made of that
great attitude
gratitude
among the highest
of all thoughts

and if such a hymn of mad props
were sung
as i wished it to be
then it wouldn't need an organ
or guitar or keys

but it would be the sound of my day
tomorrow
and forever after
though it sound like car horns
and shower heads
and clanking trash bottles
and computer keys
and crickets
and jet engines
and sizzling fry pans
and televisions
and sunday churches
and mosques
and footfalls
and sirens

and i would dedicate it
to the Teacher
and the teachable heart

if i could sing a hymn of mad props