The Prophet

 

There once was a man

Who told stories on mountains 

Before all great feasts

Underlings would gather round 

To hear the seated prophet

And watch his big book open

They would listen with reverence 

As spells were expounded

And the whole world outside his realm, cursed

Every mind was amazed

Every ear refreshed

Every eye dazzled by his authority

Because only he knew how to reform everything

His abilities, his somber tone

Crystal clear interpretation 

Archaic application 

Every true daughter fawned

Every doting disciple stood attentive

Even the queen mother by his side

No underling dared to question the prophet’s word

Each was fitly framed like apples of gold

In settings of silver 

They all knew their history 

And what happens to those who fall

They remembered the first man on a mountain long ago 

He, too, knew how to reform everything

A reptilian once approached festivities

Spoke rashly, argued, and berated the first man 

After listening to him read and teach for only ten minutes

Suddenly, a spell burst forth

Ex opere operato

Suddenly, earth opened its mouth

Swallowing the serpentine beast whole 

Demons dragged him down to the depths below

Torturing him until that last Great Day

An important lesson was forever to be remembered

Such temporal torments are only the beginning 

Of eternal end and unmitigated sorrow 

For those who question the prophet

But God, in his great mercy, spared compliant underlings that day

And so, we, too, listen and learn, and learn to listen

From the prophet and his word

Only in recent years 

has there been one other challenger like the slithering fiend

Another recreant, full of lies and popish schemes 

That one addressed the prophet candidly in his own home

Much to everyone's surprise

The demoniac received mercy

He knew how to reform everything

After the offense was made 

A time was allotted 

For prayerful consideration

A child’s cross brought to the table 

Would become the final straw

As the timer drew nigh to its chime

Opportunity for repentance waned

And waned

And waned

The heart continued to harden 

And harden

Until

Everything within became reformed like him

Then the prophet, rich in mercy

And abundant in redemption

For his great love wherewith he loved his underlings

Quickened him 

And made him sit 

in the heavenly places

So that in the ages to come

He might show the exceeding riches 

Of his favor

In his kindness toward those

He hath foreordained 

That they should walk in his ways

Rich Coast Gambling

 

You kept them alive. Now what? Seventy years in your pocket and you unashamedly invest in a sixth. But for what? The sixth doesn’t know you, yet pretends to while mimicking the real you. The real you is in their letters, followed by thirteen pages of gaslighting.

The real you doesn’t play by rules. The real game doesn’t require gimmicks or apologetics. Do you remember the technicolored dreamcoat of debate strategies? Yours do. What about the pen name deemed necessary to remain incognito, or the prodigal options of calls and puts, or the ozonating machines and rejuvenating powders?

Do you remember the emergency meeting about fleeing to Costa Rica? Yours do. They even wished you were serious. While you discover zealots in Uganda they remember your conceits. Apocalyptic delusions, unteachable spirits, and position papers only memorialize your folly.

They chuckle because you’re ridiculous. You grumble because they aren’t enamored by your conceits. At first they thought this imposition of a sixth was another Costa Rica. But then you doubled down in exchange for one more joker. 

Colonel of Truth

 

 

What is a dative

That was his quiz

Drilling, jabbing, spitting pride

Supposedly to prove a point

An imaginary point, too

Something to do with the sign of the cross

But most likely to convince his opponent

He knows better than everyone in the room

While he sits on his couch

Next to his doormat

And doting disciple

The unholy trinity

Of He, Helpmeet, and ὕβρις

Parrot Disease

 

I wish there was an easy way to say this, but John was right about the jailor.

Tireless propaganda tames all but the few whose faith is whole.

 

I remember you well. I don’t remember everything, 

but what I remember from back then is the same I heard today.

 

You are hurt. Nobody responds to your stupid texts.

Nobody calls you, or checks in, or pays you a visit, or invites you over. 

Always deflecting. Always insulting. Always hearing but not listening.

Always gaslighting. Always the victim. Always the expert. Always the same.

 

Fifty-eight minutes is all it took to remember why your four distanced themselves.

In your eyes the four are Stewards. Milk does feed calves and dung does not.

 

Always reformed but never reforming, and trying to make them think.

That milk is the same sort of thing as sweat or dung.

One is always the soldier at war. One is always attacked. One is always justified.

That one is a horrible human being. Not horrible, as in wicked—

 

—horrible in the sense of pathetic, and mean, and hypocritical, 

and self-aggrandizing, and argumentative, and petty, and embarrassing.

This is why your four don’t bother with you anymore.

Tireless propaganda tames all but the strong whose hearts they break.