Prose Poem...I think...

I have no idea how this came to me, but it is a take on the David and Goliath story, it's sort of fitting as I sit here thinking about my grandfather, David, who passed away just a few hours ago.  This might have been a sort of unconscious tribute I was writing to him...even though it's a bit strange.

(Title pending)

I want to write songs like she makes haste, like he draws representations, like they drink beer, like we hear God.  We hear Jesus on the mount saying, "Hey man, don't try to sing what's on the radio."  But we do it, and we like it.  The we'll cry back, "Christ almighty, Jesus, it's so easy to dance, though, when they play the music for you."  But David danced to the sound of his own lute being pricked by his own fingers.  And I think Goliath had his own record label.
But I want to carve words I think sound good together into a jagged rock and hurl my self-sustaining, melody-strumming lyre at Goliath's heart.  I don't want to feel Jesus this time.  I don't want to make him understand-if I can't.  I'll do it all first Kings style and put my rock in the world's largest sling shot.  And I'll tell Goliath to back the fuck off 'cause Def Jam had and still has nothing on me.  And Lord knows I did a better job then David could have done, but he asked me to make a deal.
I hesitated .  But from the mount, Christ said, "do it."  And I said, "Stop pushing me, damn it."  And David said, "I'll put music to your words if you let me take the credit for your kill."  And I wanted so badly in that moment to do what the runners, the artists, and the drinkers never could to; to do what they never could do to fabricate their hopes.  I wanted to scream from a mount of my own that I had made real: "Jesus!  What do I do!?  What's the answer!?"  But I did not, and he said not a word, but lowered the clouds as if to give an affirmative nod.
So I turned to David and said it was a deal.  And he made me a melody.  He said, "okay, so you hand me my credit for the killing first, then you get your song."  And while I knew I should have requested we hand them over at the same time, I didn't say a word, but handed him my sling shot and my honor.  And David ran off with my song.
He'd put it in a book eventually.  He'd apostrophize it to his God, but it was still mine.  And still David danced while I, unseen, played his lute.