Sunday, November 29, 2020



Is not Alexander his name?

And a coppersmith his trade?

No, sayeth one of the Annointed's apostles

Such is the record of another man

yet this one did as much evil nonetheless

and hath received rewards according to his works

for he hath greatly withstood our words

Be thou ware of him

imagining one’s self to be a new Moses

supposing his brethren would understand 

that God would deliver by his hand

But they understood not

while he gloried in imprecations

Becoming a terror to good works

he destroyed the image of God

and established a rival of divine justice 

He knew that no man hath greater love 

than when his life is laid down for his friends

So he condemned her as no friend

and framed her as God’s enemy

He justified his own and stopped caring for hers

as though God hath rewarded his equity

If she suffered from wrong, it was no longer by him

for he was no longer called to help her through suffering

having suffered much already

His calling now was to smite pharaohs, not keep covenants

Wilt thou ever interrogate thy self O Adam?

What inhabits thy mind now?

What kind of soul dost thou have now?

The soul of a predator or its prey?

Answer the call of accountability preached by thee

Let no rank seek exemption

Frame no more mischief with law or its grace

Growing up

It’s a strange feeling to have her closer in proximity than you

You were there growing up with us, when we both seemed dead

You became close to both of us only when the family divided and fell apart

You dragged me, effectually, as the puritans would say

But her…You towed her away

I now study her scriptures and ask, How did you survive?

Why did you survive?

I was given so much after everything fell apart

You had so much taken away that never returned

You abandoned us, perhaps, for a summer

But we abandoned you and cut you off like cancer

And we never returned

But you did return

Thank you for returning

And please, thank him for returning you to me

Such intercessions tow me closer in proximity to him

Thursday, November 26, 2020

God is love

The clock ticks with his voice

Nothing is said, but he calls us

Outside of time, the virtual aristocracy opines

Within time and above it, according to mumbles within armchairs

These are the kinds of games nintendo can’t fathom

And as the clock ticks, I hear little feet offer their cadence above

Little animals playing in his zoo

All will wither and fade as the food they consume

Some will be deified and—hopefully—become zookeepers

I hear them dropping thingamabobs on the firmament above, as the clock ticks with his voice

Sunday, November 22, 2020


Save—save—save this imprint of every passing memory with stars marking one idea after another.

No page of your Scriptures shall be forgotten.

You are like a star shining over the cosmos with miracles, holy mother of mine.

And so I sing a hymn of praise with you, the one presented in the temple of God, during this great feast.

There we will offer gifts in a double portion.

There, in the garden, we will walk together and receive food from the hand of an angel.

There, at the mountain of God, a mother and her child are received.

And if we cannot ascend this Mount together, let it split in two and take us down to hide us, and shine its light upon us, turning holy blood to stone around us.

Favor is with those who fear our Lord, to whom be glory into the ages—of ages—of Ages.

Saturday, November 14, 2020


‘Twas two weeks ‘til Thanksgiving

But one week to relax

And play games or just chat long

While grazing on snacks 

But inside of our bodies

Crept imaginary

Disease causing germs

That would kill if one sneezed

Some then fretted all night long

And then caved in to test

And expected the rest 

To approve their behest

Because that day just might come

When they’d feel slightly warm

Or wake up just like normal 

Of there being no harm

But without being tested 

They might never know

If living life normal

Was just placebo

With trillions of toxins

Inside us already 

The last thing we need 

Is to foster anxiety

By testing and testing 

and testing some more

That guarantees nothing 

and increases stress more 

Many understand little

Yet think they care best

Ignoring high false positives

Of RT-PCR tests

Many also don’t realize

That a swab up the nose

Is far less effective 

Than turning off their phones 

Sunday, November 8, 2020

Thank you internet

Waking we feel the tug and pull

toward minds conspiring, calculating, 

dancing in preparation for the next act

in our collective hollywood production

Is coffee or tea next for our day?

Perhaps we pay our water bill and release some fumes first

What comes next doesn’t really matter 

as long as our batteries are charged

These cyborgic extensions of our selves 

don’t live if we don’t breathe into their nostrils

This dead wooden cadaver wants to recognize your face

and fill your life with purpose and meaning and value and faith

Stop expending much needed energy

turning knobs or tuning your patience in at six o’clock

Sit back and say, 'Hey, Kookle!' or "See Wee?" to get each fix

Sip the professional productionism in slowly while its warm

They keep our dials on low heat for us, twenty four seven

Relax and refill and indulge with fact-filled sweeteners as needed

You deserve it and they know it

You’ve worked hard this day

You need a break

They’ve got updates every waking minute 

and breaking news tailored just for you

Sunday, November 1, 2020

Gates of Hell


Suck our eyeballs into your glass magnet and tell us how to think

Sell us your sexy dogmas about shooting up to feel good again

We want to shove block chains down your God string

Yes! Twirl and twerk your stats in our face so close we can smell them

Dumb it down, up and down, all around - this new normal

Yes! We stroke and strum to your fear porn and surrender upon climax

Love is love, Science is real, and men can have periods

Even experts agree that this great reset is key to our safety

We believe. Please help our unbelief