Monday, October 31, 2022

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











Wednesday, October 26, 2022

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. 







Thursday, October 13, 2022

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.