I.          Honey Moon Suite

 

Once we find beauty in the everyday things we find ourselves able to see God where he truly is—all around us, inside us, in even our one-time enemies.  He makes his presence known in the sparrow as clearly as in the tender embrace of a dear friend.  Moreover, we find love in the most unexpected places.  When the purity of God is finally clear, so too is the perfection of his will, how in his wisdom we are carried over the dregs and doldrums of life to rest comfortably in his arm.  New marriage parallels the refreshing of the seasons as an age of rediscovery begins.

 

 

Act 1:  Springtime Blossom Bean Stalks

 

 

On A Walk Before A Rain

 

No sound but that of rushing wind

that brushes light the textured skin,

as if a fine tuned violin,

on a walk before a rain.

 

Above mix forms of drifting cloud,

surrounding willows weep aloud,

(what company, the solemn crowd!)

on a walk before a rain.

 

Still mirror surface, clear upon

concentric circles, dripped in pond,

where two-way glass meets dipping fronds,

on a walk before a rain.

 

Shadows—dominant, serene;

bluish grays meet forest green,

all is calm and all is clean,

on a walk before a rain.

 

 

Exhumed

 

By this point, life

had sucked out my energy,

and I was weary and old,

a battered man at the end.

My days were nothing but

misery and apathy,

dreary and cold…

then, somehow, a friend!

 

God, I adore you!

What’s this—a smile!?

You exhume me

when I bury myself.

And now laughter,

class, and style;

I raise a glass and

drink to your health.

 

 

Soften Me

 

If I could spend an hour in your room,

talking to you, what would you say?

If you could walk a mile in my shoes,

feet black and blue, would you walk away?

If I could read truth in your eyes,

never disguised, what would I find?

If I could know tones of your speech,

interpret them each, could I read your mind?

 

Give me an hour of your time

and I'll give you my heart.

Knock me down,

crack the exterior;

I'll fall apart.

 

Shelter me from the cold,

almost frozen, all alone;

melt my heart with your kiss,

throw a coin in the well,

make a wish.

I'm numb with frost,

but warmth you breathe;

thaw my emotions,

soften me.

 

If you comprehended my

words, meanings unearthed,

would you understand?

If you touched the sorrows

inside, longings denied,

would you touch my hand?

If I should step out from

my grave, long to be saved,

could you nurse the wounds?

And if I have missed out

on living, and you feel forgiving,

may I leave my tomb?

 

Give me an hour of your life

and I'll give you much more;

I'm freezing outside,

knocking sadly,

open the door.

 

Shelter me from the cold,

almost frozen, all alone;

melt my heart with your kiss,

throw a coin in the well,

make a wish.

I'm numb with frost,

but warmth you breathe;

thaw my emotions,

soften me.

 

Drag me in from the snow,

frozen solid, cold as stone;

heat me up with a kiss,

capture a shooting star,

make a wish.

I'm encased in ice,

summer you breath;

thaw my emotions,

soften me.

 

 

Exploding Dreams

 

I dreamt you a princess,

what you deserve;

I dreamt me an outlaw,

seeking your favor,

seeking to serve.

I dreamt you enlightened,

while I was in pitch;

I groped through the open

to where you had spoken,

and fell in a ditch.

 

My heart exploded

when I saw you;

now my epic

was complete.

You toted hope to

where I broke into

a thousand little

pieces of memory;

you opened and bled for me.

 

You were a missing child,

a mystery to solve;

in this scenario, I was

behind on the rent

when she called.

You were a circus act,

I needed to laugh;

you were the core of the earth,

so I cracked the world in half.

 

My heart exploded

when I noted you,

beneath a sheet

of cloth.

I overloaded

when you soaked into

the stitch of me

I’d lost in a whirlwind;

I’m smitten with pearl again,

in my exploding dream.

 

 

I Think I’ve Fallen In Love

 

Some batty thing is happening

that I just can’t explain;

some crazy thing is stirring

my emotional remains.

I’d a heart that was useless

and fruitlessly plain,

until you discovered its uses again.

I think I’m falling. I think I’m falling.

I think I’ve fallen in love.

 

Well certainly absurdity’s

reversed to be the norm;

certain things are burning

hot enough to keep me warm.

I’d a notion that oceans of fish had run dry;

the mood turned, you swam

through the highest of tides.

I think I’m falling. I think I’m falling.

I think I’ve fallen in love.

 

 

Parenthetical Gothic Elsewhere

 

When you look this way,

when there is nothing more

your eyes can say,

I will stare you down,

you’ll be my queen, you’ll be

impaled on my crown.

 

In a castle on a hill,

the candle burning

on your window sill,

and the cold outside

attempts to scale the wall

and steal my bride.

 

Under a frightened sky,

the silence echoes with

your torturous cries;

oh, if I lose you now,

curse this tragedy that

threatens our vows!

 

(Fantasy is so much easier

than living in reality,

in my head is far more

pleasant than outside,

ignorance is far, far

sweeter than tolerance;

mercy on me, wisdom—

I beg you to pass me by.)

  

When you turn away,

when there are no thoughts

or words exchanged,

will you tear me down?

 

 

Act 2:  Shimmering, Simmering, Feverish Summer

 

 

Virgin Eden

 

The water falls to my silent delight,

flows through the crevices of stone.

My thoughts are hazy in

the sun that dims my sight,

in this remote place all alone.

 

Far away from

monuments and signs;

isolated quarantine

of sighs.

 

The swallow dips its wings

in flutters by the pool,

chirps a greeting to a fawn.

Butterflies drift slowly by

the swaying shadow’s cool,

to join the dragonflies

in cattails on the pond.

 

Mountain valley

hideaway, serene;

picture perfect

postcard of a scene.

 

Untouched by

human hand,

virgin Eden’s

promised land;

white sand,

clear water,

blue sky.

 

 

Duality

 

Watching strangers pass,

splitting blades of grass,

all alone;

pulling out the weeds,

sipping herbal tea,

tossing stones.

 

There’s a silence in who

you perceive that I am;

there’s a lion, lying in

the pasture by a lamb.

 

There’s a science to making

you believe I fit in;

a fair alliance between

the mountains and the wind.

 

 

I Can’t Believe It

 

I can’t believe you said yes to me;

I can’t believe you didn’t turn and run.

I can’t believe you’re standing here next to me,

agreeing with me, to be one.

 

Believe it if you can;

I’m giving you everything I am.

I am in love with you so deeply;

I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.

I am in love with you completely;

no one means as much to me as you.

 

Time has yet to prove

there’s nothing I won't see you through;

I promise I’ll be anywhere you need me,

just to show you how I care.

 

Believe it if you can;

this is part of some eternal plan,

that I’m in love with you so madly,

the thought of you alone can make me cry.

I am in love with you so badly,

I gladly do commit to this new life

—a life in love with you.

 

I can’t believe I could be so lucky;

I can’t believe you really did agree.

I can’t believe how wide good fortune’s smiling;

I can’t believe my God’s so good to me.

 

Believe it if you can;

we never have to sleep alone again.

I am in love with so purely;

I want to be the best friend I can be.

I am in love with you so surely;

I can’t believe that you’re in love with me.

 

I am in love with you forever;

love will hold us close together.

How I love you.

 

 

Weeble Wobble Wonderbread

 

I’m in love with a girl without legs;

I felt, and they simply weren’t there.

Everyone was laughing at me,

and she didn’t care—she didn’t care!

The world had lost its patients with me;

she knew precisely what it was I needed.

In the midst of sheer humility,

she showed me true stability,

and held my hands with fingers

that much more sensitive.

 

Girls with legs, they lack perspective;

I couldn’t have been more selective.

I’m in love with a girl without legs;

she’s everything I want, and so much more!

(The possibilities are endless; it’s something

I’d not thought of much before.)

 

My beautiful amputee, you

bring such numbing bliss to me!

My lover and my friend, you

’re my pleasure, heaven-send!

 

I love my girl with no legs.

I love my girl with no legs, I do.

I love my girl with no legs;

I stand behind my words.

I love my girl with no legs.

 

She weebles and she wobbles,

but she won’t fall down.

 

 

Now

 

There’s so much my stumbling words

could say, but where would they begin?

They could nowhere near do justice

to the jumble of mumbles within.

Now is not the time for words,

just wade in the pools of my eyes,

pull yourself close to my chest and my

throat, and I’ll open to what it implies.

 

Never expected to be holding you so near;

I wouldn’t have thought you’d be

caught in my arms in a million years.

I witness our worlds moving closer,

and I wonder how; I’ve never been

so happy as I am right now.

 

Seeing you alone—I almost never get

that chance; I can’t help but think of how

this night might be enhanced.

Soft upon my skin, you breathe mint

and curl in, glisten with magic,

listen emphatically to the wind.

 

Never expected to be holding you so dear;

I wouldn’t have thought I’d be

lost in the darkness of your tears.

I see our worlds intertwining,

winding ‘round our vows; I’ve never been

so happy as I am right now.

 

Changing from the inside out,

now that I’ve seen love;

leaving would be suicide

—I’ll never have enough.

Listen to my heartbeat,

tapping in Morse code;

with no one there to rap against,

my overactive heart would explode.

 

Never expected to be holding you so near;

I wouldn’t have thought you’d be

honestly taken, and join me here.

I’ve seen my world brightened

and lighthearted since you’ve come around;

I’ve never been so happy as I am right now.

 

 

Asleep

 

Drift—pulled under current

(current) swept in wonder soft;

swiftly blissful entrance

(entrance) into bedroom loft.

And I don’t feel I am dreaming,

and I don’t feel any hurt at all;

in a small way, I must be asleep.

 

Held snug, securely, surely

sweet surrounding arm;

lullaby, good bye, good night,

encompass you from harm.

And I don’t feel I am losing

any moment’s pressing need,

or bleeding; I must be asleep.

 

Daylight comes, daylight goes,

flowers bloom where it snows,

seasons change, heaven knows;

in serene, I must be asleep.

 

 

Act 3:  Autumn Seasoning

 

 

Dusk At The Clearing Of The Wetland

 

Raindrops fall from leaves, upon

the rippled surface of the pond,

wrinkle soft reflections of the sky.

Purple clouds and orange moon

glide into the dry lagoon,

as animals retire and daylight dies.

Spanish moss sways in the breeze

that winds its way through crooked trees,

to oversee the dusk from where it hangs.

The silhouettes of branches stretch

their etches to the granite’s ledge,

where foliage dangles like fangs.

 

The world has nothing to compare,

it suffocates in pallid air;

I pray it never taints my paradise.

Dear sirs, dividing up the earth,

I’ll gladly pay you twice its worth,

if only for this perfect little slice

—this slice of paradise.

 

 

You’re Wonderful, You’re Mine, & I Love You

 

Changed faces worn down by fingertips;

names and places, only sampled lips.

I turn the page, it seems like ages ago;

must be someone else, someone I don’t know.

 

But you’re now and you’re here and you’re real;

you’re now and you’re near, and I feel so I alive

in your mind, in the thoughts on your lips;

you’re completion in purity,

everything I’ve missed.

 

Don’t worry, you’ll never catch me

in a hurry to hang up the phone.

Don’t fret it, I won’t forget that you’re

the only reason I’m rushing home.

‘Cause you’re wonderful,

you’re mine, and I love you.

 

A trunk in the bedroom,

full of relics from our youth,

could use some sorting through

—I’d rather look at you,

who gave me everything

I ever hoped I’d find;

how’d I get so lucky

you agreed to be mine?

 

You’re now and you’re here and you’re real;

you’re now and you’re near, and I feel so blessed

with the best, most perfect thing on earth;

the most virtuous, extravagant

pearl of priceless worth!

 

Don’t worry, you didn’t catch me

in a flurry of emotional haze.

Don’t sweat it, I don’t regret that you’re

my reason for greeting the days.

 

‘Cause you’re wonderful,

you’re mine, and I love you.

You’re wonderful, you’re mine,

and I love you.

 

 

In My Eyes

 

The way the light gleams in your eye,

the way the night beams in reply,

the way the earth whispers your name,

the way it pours you in the rain,

the way you take shape in the clouds,

the way you stand out from the crowds,

the way you pin prick my nerves,

the way you run me down your curves.

 

I couldn’t say just what I’m feeling;

you are in every way appealing.

You’re the only one—

I’m enchanted and amazed.

I stare for hours, powerless and enslaved.

 

In my eyes, you can do no wrong;

it’s no surprise I’ve

harbored dreams so long.

In my eyes, no other life exists;

you kiss the blisters, nurse my broken fists.

 

I barely touch you with a look,

you squarely undo every hook,

I press you well between my knees,

you lunge at the opportunity,

I jolt and recoil in surprise,

you soak in the depth

of the moat of my lies,

I cry, so overwhelmed with fears,

you cup your hands to catch my tears.

 

I wouldn’t know how to explain it;

I wouldn’t know what shade to paint it.

You’re the only one—

I’m blissful and intrigued.

I’m feverish, and melting in degrees.

 

In my eyes, you can do no wrong;

you materialize in the verses

of passionate songs.

In my eyes, no other life persists;

you breathe mint on my licorice,

lick clean the dish of my wish list.

 

 

Solace

 

Shiver, cold chill, cat on center stage,

study floor (at which point, he turns the page).

Something meaningful, something fleeting...

(at which point, his heart stops beating).

 

Not going to steal your thoughts,

but I’ll steal your mind

when you leave it lying on the table;

kick it under the love seat, swinger,

kick it as hard as you can

(after all, he’s only a man).

 

Now you know where my head is lately;

gutter-boy to laughing paisleys,

shadows drifting, while staying in place

(after all, he takes up space).

Cage-bed comfort zone

(after all, he slept alone);

not to look, but pierced with stares

(after all, life wasn’t fair).

 

Blind young lover, closet dancer,

notion; glimpse into the future—yes!

Crazy babe, lukewarm gentry host

(what happens next is anybody’s guess).

 

 

Drift

 

Packaged so perfectly, petite and frail,

gentle, so delicate, pallid and pale,

sleeping so silently, sign on the door, saying,

“DO NOT DISTURB”, hers, the dream I adore.

 

At night, as the stars on her ceiling look down,

in a dim flood of light, all her loneliness drowns,

with the vague recollection of things undefined,

unwonted telepathy swells in her mind.

 

Alone in my chambers, surrounded by walls,

no figure illumined to answer my calls;

when I scream into nothing, thoughts all a blur,

I’d imagine a new song, if only to her.

 

Formed so fantastically, fair and divine,

so very nice, and incredibly fine,

the child is a banshee, the rest are impressed,

such rapt infatuation, strapped at her breast.

 

In mourning we wake to this tragic design,

you rise to your ways and I fall to mine,

overcome by the madness of mundane replies,

you obscure views of the overcast I.

 

 

Asylum

 

A-rap-tap-tap... here’s the scenario:

the stereo is on the station playing

only slow songs, and the pelting on

the rooftop is another angel crying

from the shadow over dandelion lawns.

Up at dawn, while I sleep, you close

your eyes in the shower stream; and

me, still dreaming you’re lying there

near me. Dear, you go your way

through the day without a thought of me;

in jealousy, in honesty, it gets to me.

I hid my journal so you wouldn’t

see how foolish I am, what cheesy,

sentimental drivel I’ve been scribbling again.

The funny thing is how I really still mean

every word I erased, but inspiration goes

to waste on someone like me, who can’t

for the life of me explain what I meant

when I decided you were heaven sent.

You’re the epitome of everything

redeemable in lunacy; loosely translated,

you’re a daisy in a junkyard of stock cars,

whose owners are fat and lazy.

The world is crazy.

 

The world is crazy, so hold me;

hold me, baby... the world is crazy.

 

 

Act 4:  The Lingering Wintergreen Kiss

 

 

Outside, A World Of White

 

It’s snowing on your face;

I can see.

I can see.

Come in for the evening,

by the fire, you and me.

We’ll drink tea and coffee,

whisper softly,

count the gusts of wind.

We’ll talk for just a little while,

hours later, sit and smile;

let no other in.

Just the two of us;

outside, a world of white.

 

Just the few of us;

outside, a world of white.

 

 

Dashing

 

Like a northern winter snow,

like covers on the streets,

like the stars in summer skies,

or the silk between the sheets,

shekinah glory;

white is beautiful.

 

Like a heart that’s free from sin,

like the glowing of a saint,

like the color of your skin,

or the lightest oil paints,

telling stories;

white is beautiful.

 

Like a girl who knows her worth,

who won’t compromise beliefs,

like the shifting shapes of cloud,

or the shells on coral reefs,

so inspiring;

white is beautiful.

 

Like the glimmer in your eyes

of the heavenly above,

like the wisdom of the wise,

or the purest form of love,

never tiring;

white is beautiful.

 

I praise God for you,

so fearfully and wonderfully made;

what a blessing to be dipped

in such a wonderful fade!

Blades of grass prick the sky,

and down trickle drips of brilliant rays

—so beautiful!

 

 

Embrace

 

Ease your mind, erase

the sands of time.

Call my name; I’ll re-

lease you from the pain.

Close your eyes, it’s

not a pretty sight.

Stay in bed; pull the

covers over your head.

 

Embrace your pillow, baby;

pull it close, and maybe you can

drown out the noise of the world.

 

Hush and sigh,

whisper, hum a lullaby.

Breathe and sleep;

snuggle endless melody.

Swell and swim; let the

dreamy summers filter in.

Slip and sway; when the

cold comes knocking,

run away.

 

Listen, waiting softly,

leaving dreams is awfully hard to

face when the day breaks through.

 

I could be with you right now,

if only there were no here;

I could be leaning in and kissing you,

if only things were not so clear.

But coffee fills the air; I nearly

can’t bear to face another hour.

I curse at the light-shine and curdle

under pelting of the shower.

 

I’m awake;

I wish that I could hibernate,

in a world so hardened by hate.

I can’t relate—it’s all a big mistake;

there’s an ache in my heart.

 

 

Still Beautiful

 

Years have been cruel and cold,

have whipped their vengeance

with a stranglehold,

and we may have grown

decrepit and old,

and the young may despise us,

and dig us six foot wide,

coffin-sized holes;

but to me you are still beautiful

for every line I’ve

drawn under your eyes,

and we will wither up sweetly,

‘til we’ve squeezed the years

of living dry, then die.

 

This age old friendship with time,

this understanding that

it swallows us alive,

makes it all the more precious

with you by my side,

to share the harsh reality

that bones grow

weary of themselves;

but to me you’re truly everything

worth falling apart for in this life,

and I will love you even more

with every wrinkle,

every asthmatic whine,

as we lose our teeth

and go blind.

 

 

When I See That Face

 

I can climb any mountain,

I can cross any sea,

I can dig straight through the earth,

as long as you’re with me.

I can rise to any challenge,

I can make it through the day,

I can fly beyond the moon,

but only if you stay.

 

When I see that face,

there’s nothing I can’t do;

when I see that face,

I know I love you.

 

 

Come Back To Sleep

 

Baby, come back to sleep;

we are not through dreaming.

It’s a brash, rash, unflattering light;

so baby, come back.

 

 

II.        We Don't Say "Trend" Anymore

 

Having grown and clothed ourselves in knowledge and understanding, the lunacy of egos in infancy wears thin our patience.  We itch to impart the learning time brings about, in hopes that following generations might be spared the wandering years searching.  We speak truths often hidden to the lone soul who might hear.  “Vanity of vanities” gets the treatment of enumeration when judgment lifts its hand to the prominent figures in society—our entertainers.  The industry, once again, is exposed for its fruitless, meandering self-adulation.

 

 

The Ideal Portrait Of Duckling Washer,  Part I

 

One day my lake will be stocked with fish,

one overcast day when I do as I wish,

one day in the yellowish pages of my autobiography.

 

Years have passed, now I’m an idol finally,

at long last, I’m elevated justifiably;

I have a person for every unpleasant task.

Tell my underdressed, overpaid secretary

to hold all my calls as long as necessary;

and say I don’t need a reason if anyone asks.

 

Yes, I’m a bigwig now,

the one who signs your checks,

a high-dealing big wheel now,

and I don’t care who it affects.

 

I could have you killed with a flick of the wrist,

cross you off my mile long annoyance list,

buy and sell you, a slave to my every whim.

 

Put the plant in the corner

next to the window with a view,

then make yourself scarce—and here,

buy yourself some new shoes.

 

My narcissistic tendencies come into play;

I collect the important things you throw away.

I’m a genius, I’m a painter, I’m whatever will sell;

if you knew me before, you have to promise

not to tell.

 

One day we’ll create someone new,

the perfect me and a better you.

 

I’m a game show ghost, I’m a talk show host,

I’m a commercial during your favorite cartoon,

I’m a new fanzine, I’m the final scene

(I’m an over-inflated hot air balloon).

 

 

I Wrote This Song, See

 

Here’s my bio, here’s my song,

here’s everything about me,

a bit of shameless pandering

to anyone who doubts me.

It’s time the world had a chance

to love what I can do;

some claim I have no talent—

well, it simply isn’t true!

 

I wrote this song, see,

so I’m here in Tennessee,

where everyone you meet

is in the music industry.

I wrote this song, see,

and an album worth of “B”s;

I would have made it years ago,

if only I’d the means.

 

Oh, it’s beautiful... just listen!

 

Here’re a couple photographs

of me in different poses;

I’m partial to the ones framed

with gothic, black roses.

Just look at how incredibly

pop-starish I can look!

One day this will all be in

my first best selling book.

 

I wrote this song, see,

you’ve probably heard of me;

I must have sent a demo

out to every company.

I wrote this song see,

so I’m here in Music City;

just listen, it’s wonderful,

I know that you’ll agree.

 

Oh, please, please, please, please listen!

 

I followed the scene since I was fifteen,

and I used to dance around as a kid;

I followed standard procedure,

and this is the bridge I came up with.

 

Remember several years ago,

that hit by what’s-his-name?

I think I’ve finally gotten where

I nearly sound the same.

And if we overdub the vocals,

technologically enhanced,

and cop whatever’s current,

then I think we stand a chance.

 

I wrote this song, see,

now aren’t you proud of me?!

I want to see my face

in every music magazine.

I wrote this song, see;

don’t tell me I’m not ready...

an artist doesn’t think about

such unimportant things.

 

Oh, do yourself a favor and listen!

 

 

Stuck On Venus Rag

 

Hello there from the next bigg scene!

Thanx for picking up our liltte magazine.

You will see we have ingluded

slews of reviews & music news

and photographa of takcy 80s cheez.

If If yoiu turn strait to the back

adn skip th e blah blah blah,

we will classify the lah-de-da-de-da-da-dah.

Let me statre right fromg the outset

that my closest friend’s a chia-pet,

and even THAT has not grown much at all.

 

Article 1 deals with God,

article 2 trashes institiutionns,

page 3 is influential poetyr,

then number 4 is soemthin about evotutuion.

 

32 cents is all I ask, and I’ll be

your mail order freind.

So send it... send, sned, send!

 

Fresh dust between your finger slits,

new ink spots in splottches under fingertipos,

the man behind the counter

calls you “Ducky Wigger”;

you’re known throughuot town

in coffee shpos as “tha Mista Ritz”.

Distributed at fine clusbs everywheer,

with articles and adsand self adulation,

you nake some people angry

and other people sick

with pat alternative,

useless uinformation.

 

Ad 1 is looking for a singer,

ad2, a singer lookign of r a band,

ad 3 plays only covers of zeppelin,

ad 4 wnats to buy a girls hnad.

 

32 cents is not alot to ask;

i’ll be your nw best friend.

So send it... send, send,send!

 

 

These Kids Today

 

The bands of today are monotone;

leave me alone. The songs they sing

are deafening, they have no ring.

 

I am a fan of the old school,

where they wrote the rules you broke.

I don’t subscribe to the volume thing;

I find it terribly annoying, and a sick joke.

 

The bands of the day all sound the same;

it’s such a bloody shame. The songs they sing

—there’re a myriad, and they all sound bad.

 

I’m in for humiliation, devastation by song.

Such selfish prattle is a terrible sin;

you’ve been taken in all along.

 

The bands of today are attention starved,

want to be big stars; the songs they sing

are meaningless, just a horrible mess.

 

Volume is no substitute for talent,

rebellion doesn’t suit you in the least,

absurdity’s a poor excuse for genius,

art as an art form is deceased.

 

I implore you, spare us this mockery!

It’s a travesty and a bore. You’re stripped

of beauty, melody, and creativity,

high selling whore.

 

These kids today are ridiculous,

they utter foolishness, and get quite out of hand.

The fashion of the day makes me furious;

it’s laborious to comprehend.

 

 

A Day In The Sun

 

“We’ve been rehearsing at Knuckle-

Head Studios for the big show.

We welcome you all to the Alternative Rodeo!

We’ll play a cover of a song you well know,

with smiles on our faces,

never comprehending the passion it embraces.

We pale by comparison; we’re stale,

and embarrassed to go home.

 

“But we’re hoping that our

day in the sun will come,

as we insult your sensibilities

and make ourselves look dumb.

And from the first note, you’ll notice

we have no reason to be up here;

we can’t convey that we can relate

to you, or be sincere.

 

“I’ll stand right here and do that

cool thing with the microphone.

The band will take their places

on the stage, ready to rawk-n-roll!

We’ll play songs about girls we want,

and ballads to touch your heart….”

 

…my gag reflex, more like—

just let it die already, butchers of art;

no one is interested in your

tired interpretation of Clapton.

 

Still, you’re hoping that your

day in the sun will come,

and the absurdity makes me want

to vomit—oh, you’re a loony one!

And why you even want it makes me ill

that such stupidity exists on such a large scale.

You need a much stronger tanning lotion;

the heat’s been affecting your brain.

 

And you’re hoping that your

day in the sun will come,

while, with piddling little effort,

you arrogantly twiddle your thumbs.

And your fans are all related,

and your gigs are in town; face it,

you’re a dead weight, still waiting

for the world to come around.

 

And by the way, I hope your

day in the sun evaporates you.

 

 

Unnecessary Yelling

 

Baby, baby, baby

(indefinitely).

Yeah, yeah, yeah

(ditto).

No, no, no, no, no, no, no

(you get the picture);

I changed my mind.

 

[Various other noises occur, during which time the listener progresses from mere boredom to physical illness.]

 

 

The Lead

 

Back me up, boys,

but do it from behind that invisible line.

I need the spotlight brightest on me,

and we’ll be just fine.

The audience wants someone to idolize,

and who better than who would

come as no surprise?

 

I want the lead,

I want the gazes all to follow me,

and never for one moment stray.

It must be my words, my voice,

my face, and everything my way.

 

Soundman, I need

a bit more monitor,

so my own voice is all I really hear;

it’s the front man who makes

or breaks the band—oh, don’t you agree?

(I hope I’ve made myself clear.)

 

I want the lead,

I want the final say, perpetually,

for don’t I know what’s best?

I want the band named after me,

I want my name engraved in everything;

we can tape yours to whatever’s left.

 

 

Anthology

 

I venture to say I’ve seen the last thrill

killed on a page; I very nearly claim

I’ve been tickled by the very final taste.

Created beings marveling in revelry,

astonished, doing nothing more than

quarreling ideas, rehash reiterations

of philosophies and nations, frustrations

in annals and diaries.

 

Weave me into your league, a legion

of everyone feeling, each striving

to write the very same thing,

a definitive concept, a masterpiece

of craft manipulation, a life’s work

summed up in a binding.

 

I dare say I’ve shot myself in the arm

by saying anything; I dare say

I know not how to translate.

Fortunately, younger have been

entering behind me, and to them

I sound a seasoned communiqué.

Still, we read each other’s stories,

and spark each others’ next, yet

never quite obtaining what we’re after;

we greet each other gratefully

and break respective necks, with

endless hours of dialoguing laughter.

 

Glean me into your scene, society’s continual

reeling, individuals with a sense of community,

etching names in Akashic records, changing

only what we were predestined to change; it’s

a strange thought, but your life is lived already.

 

Ween me into your leaves, a poet-tree

mostly a-peeling, partial revealing

of extremely similar themes,

all encompassing rhetoric and irony,

with humorous stabs of anarchy and

disregard for less than grand schemes.

Escort me into your collective consciousness;

place me on coffee tables….

 

 

A Song By This Name

 

There is a song by this name

making someone somewhat famous

by extending it and editing the verse.

There is a song that sounds the same

as every other song that plays.

There is a place where no one

cares about the words.

There is a guy who they just call “DJ”....

There is a stranger making money

off this song, by making it longer,

and longer, and longer, and longer.

There is a guy who cannot sing

doing curious things, but he looks

cooler than me, so it must be right.

And everything repeats, all the

samples, overdubs, and beats,

we enter minute three,

and I am bored already,

and I want the song to end.

[So I turn down the mains.]

 

 

We’ve Nothing Better To Do

 

I’m afraid I shall have to

claim I’m better than you;

and I say this simply because

I’ve nothing better to do.

 

Would you be dismayed if I fled from the stage,

or bled from my head, or burst into flames?

I prayed for anything, but nothing ever came.

 

We have nothing better to do

than to make more music, and to

be upstaged by our closest peers,

and to reopen our wounds.

We’ve no other way to entertain our-

selves than by chasing a fable of fame;

it’s a shame, I realize, but nonetheless

the way the game is played.

 

If the rules changed a bit, gave

some leeway, I might be nice;

but in a dog-eat-dog rat pack,

the men make a breakfast of mice.

 

Would you be distressed

if I left here upset?

Not to fret, it’s a hobby

I frequently make sport of;

I love how the lines in your face

contort when you’re stressed.

 

We simply have nothing better to do

than to make ourselves richer, and to

amuse ourselves at your expense,

and glue bills to our shoes.

We’ve no other pastime than being alive,

and that is becoming a bore;

we’re unimpressed with TV shows

and movies increasingly more.

 

I fear we’ve nothing better to do than

to monopolize an industry or two,

taking over the peasants,

acknowledging the presence of few.

We’ve worked ourselves into a rut of sorts

—of course, that’s not unusual for us;

it’s rather an extension of

the lifestyle we mentioned,

it’s all part of collecting dust.

 

We do what we must, then rust

like the machines we’ve become.

 

 

No Joke, Sherlock

 

Coolwalla, Dali, Holly mirror,

cholley, trolley, hardly nearer;

sake of Pete, mistake ID

—genius me done it again!

Lend a hand to your everyman,

scan me into your brilliant band,

because what I say means deep things,

different to everyone but indifferent me.

 

Kahlua, slew of ooga-booga,

strewn with loons, yet never truer,

quick to speak nonexistent repeat,

deleted... instant—single key;

easily mean just a touch of anything,

rather redeem society through lunacy,

because I only half mean such random streams,

deemed brilliant leaves through sunbeams.

 

Unexpectant, anxious nerve disorder,

bad advice to a poorer porter,

short of nonsense, soared intelligence,

searing your inner ear...

a goat-herding sheep sheerer;

real disenchanted, fantasy grant planted,

rant-raved after, discarded deviant,

because image truly is

the newly wed dread you think it is;

I, despite now years, try to convince

the hard to hear they near die.

 

And Bono was more of a genius

than you comprehend

(and I don’t even like his voice).

Beatle-mania magazine fodder

—take pills and smoke something,

you’re a rock star, spitting image

of whoever they say you are

—har har har har har!

 

[Fucking lyric took all of six minutes to write,

and I got years of this shit.]

 

 

The Romantic, Tragic Life Of A Pop Culture Icon

 

Kneeling to the short walk out

front of an old country house,

snuffing a cigarette butt,

puffing the next under shoe;

pitter patter trickles in the rapping,

the tapping of raindrops with feet

like a mouse, harder and cooler,

and steadily intoxicating as booze.

And the east winds and the west winds,

and the north and the south winds collide,

and linear time pauses in a freeze-frame

of broken cloud and littered sky.

Then on inside to recline before

candlelight and sparkling wine,

or coffee, or tea, or honey mead tobacco,

and the dream of a beautiful life.

 

The romantic, tragic life of a pop culture icon.

 

Flipping ripping pages of

chicken-scratched lines,

to enumerate unenviable

traits, neurosis, and crimes.

Pining for elusive moods, and

whining in never-ending rhymes,

the complaint list, the gripe list,

overextending its fragile design.

I loved her, I lost her, I traded her

for fiction and prose; and

wasn’t she the poetry,

the salable commodity I chose?

I cash in on the bashing, the

slashing of my juvenile heart;

I cower in the limelight, and

spin the cliché “what price art!”

 

The romantic, tragic life of a pop culture icon.

 

Haven’t been to bed before

mourning since I was eighteen.

I use my dirty blood, my dirty sweat,

my dirty tears to grease the machine.

Yet content with the extent of my opulent

opera of torment, misery and sighs;

how extravagant the malcontent dissents,

with pent up venting unsurmised.

I’ll sell you all to cover the

expense of relentless good byes.

 

The romantic, tragic life of a pop culture icon...

the frantic, magic life of a pop star!

 

 

The Ideal Portrait Of Duckling Washer,  Part II

 

On these dusty shelves,

with leprechauns and elves,

my purpose is pressed between

pornography and role playing games.

Flip through the pages...

that was me; everybody loved me.

But now I walk with a slight limp,

smoke my pipe with my favorite brand of mint.

Now I have spectacles and an unkempt beard,

and a top hat covering wild, white hair.

Now my vest is adorned with

dead black roses.

 

The acquired accent and assumed name,

all that came with this fortune and fame...

in the end, I have only myself to blame.

 

 

He Never Goes Away (Live)

 

There’s that infamous voice again,

the one I find myself echoing now and then,

I wonder if he really believes he’s taken

seriously, and every word he ever pens

is a breath of new air to the camera lens.

 

There’s that ridiculous song on the radio,

that silly self promotion from

a man I worshipped a year ago.

I wonder if he still sees life as a conspiracy,

a theory I’ve so well come to know; it puzzles

me that he’s still around to say he hates it so.

 

Still, he never goes away,

and he gets just as much air play;

you’d think by now he’d have

run out of things to say.

But he never goes his own way,

writes a new song every day,

and lately he’s been trashing

everything that made him this way.

 

Recently his thing is to release, with every

single, a new song and a live recording

(I didn’t know there could be such a thing!).

I understand he’s now been making fun of me,

discreetly, indirectly, but nonetheless fiercely;

now every word I hear has an

awkward and personal sting.

 

Still he never goes away;

he must be getting fairly good pay

to drag his miserable life out until today.

And he never joins the grave he paints

with every shade of gray; I do think

he really enjoys these games he plays.

 

You can see it in his face,

he really doesn’t think himself

so horribly misplaced; I quite believe

he sees himself the biggest thing

to ever grace the stage.

But he never feels the blade;

he’s made a mockery of pain.

Yes, he’s my idol, but

I wish he would go away.

 

[Now scream, so everyone who isn’t hear

can be sold they are hearing this live.

And thank you all for coming... now go away.]

 

 

My Idols

 

Morrison, a cult god,

always a step ahead,

at the prime of his life

was dead.

As lost in fame

as he was before,

he unlocked the Doors.

 

Mercury,

high Queen of fashion,

lover of masquerades,

relied solely on visual

AIDS, sang his swan song

with head held high,

and chose how to die.

 

All of my idols are

dropping like flies,

slapped in the face

with another surprise;

wearing mortality

like a disease,

my heroes are

as infected as me.

 

Phoenix, the River damned,

stood a little too close,

left the other elements

morose,

life there before us

on movie screens,

to the final scene.

 

Cobain, my voice on earth,

please don’t apologize,

spoke for the masses

with one suicide;

with every bit

the emotion sang,

went out with a bang.

 

All of my idols are

dropping like flies,

I turn around and

another one dies;

sparing morality

like a disease,

my heroes are

as afflicted as me.

 

All my examples are

shutting their eyes,

all those I’ve wanted

to immortalize;

tearing away from me

piece by piece,

my heroes are

as helpless as me.

 

 

So It Goes

 

Everyone so close while I’m so far;

I’m black, frozen planet;

you’re a milky way of star.

You speak audibly, I can’t form a word;

you’re creative, I am just absurd.

 

But who’s to say who’s right and who is wrong?

Who’s to lead and who’s to drag along?

I may not fit neatly in your scheme—

it doesn’t bother me; NEWS FLASH!

I’ve already had my chest cavity reamed.

 

So it seems your need to beam me

never leavens, or qualifies as a natural

catastrophe of cataclysmic size.

I can think of so much worse, than

mere rehearsing well-thought lines

I’ve already heard a million, zillion times.

 

Everyone expressive and dismayed;

faces drip, insect-repellent sprayed.

And I, not the very least concerned with

caste-nets of servants, kings, and worms.

 

And no one will ever hear these words,

and no conclusion will ever be confirmed.

I sit hear like a plague or a disease,

randomly infecting who I please.

 

So it goes, your roles in Broadway shows

hold meaning by the neck, and you expect

too much from videos asserting self respect.

And you paint your short attention span

on building-sides, or road; once it flashes past,

there’s nowhere left to go.

 

 

Ridiculous

 

It’s a sort of hell

to see you decked so well.

It’s a form of punishment

to be not ignorant

of another’s show-and-tell.

 

But when you reach the end

of your God-given usefulness,

there’s nothing left to mend,

and then you’re sent away.

 

It’s ridiculous,

it’s ludicrous,

it’s patently absurd;

it’s laughable,

unbelievable,

and totally unheard.

 

It’s a kind of death,

to see you healthy,

and hold my breath.

It’s a time of doubtfulness,

of insignificance,

when all else is meaningless.

 

And when you show disdain

for everything I’ve come to know,

I’m hateful and ashamed of how

completely insane it’s grown.

 

It’s incredulous,

a relentless mess,

a jumble of untruths,

barely livable,

unforgivable;

I’m completely

unamused.

 

 

The Mirror Surface Of Your Boot

 

Take off the double-breasted

coat and vest, fine pressed and lined,

unsheathe white hands of quite

romantic brands of goat skin, and

untie the silk design where

stains of truth reflect in kind,

retire the hand carved walking stick,

the steel tipped toe the peasants lick.

 

Then tell me, standing naked in the mirror,

if clothes make the man, who makes the clothes,

and did he bow out as the problems arose?

And where has he hidden the stashes of loot?

Who would he see in the shine of your boot?

 

Drop the hint of accent off

the fork of tongue to slash its way

through memories, unpleasant

under abstract thoughts of yesterday,

uncurl the lip to grimace at

impoverished and unrefined,

primal lack of eloquence,

inadequate to redefine.

 

Then tell me, kneeling naked in the mirror,

if clothes make the man, who makes the clothes?

And does he get richer and turn up his nose?

And when is the next of his video shoots?

Who would he see in the shine of your boot?

And does he care?

 

 

Den Of Thieves,  Parts I, II, III, & IV

 

I

 “When I was young, I learned every cliché,

polished smiles through years ensuing,

every which way, and learned to lip sync

with the very best of them, and all rest of them,

too countless to name. But now I’m older,

you may say more mature, and I’ve learned

to turn my roots into a salable cure.

All the nations will join together in the song

that I pen, and we’ll all get along. And my

videos will be touching and passionate,

and humorous and contemporary

and God will really be glorified....”

 

II

“Fade into the next scene, cut and paste hate,

and everything obscene. (Repeat)

Fate—the slate is wiped clean,

sing words we don’t mean,

as we enter Part III.”

 

III

 “Glory Hallelujah! Glory Hallelujah!

Glory Hallelujah! Glory, Glory, Glory Hallelujah,

sing praise, lay hands, and slay, fall backwards,

drunk on the wine of the Spirit of life and love!”

 

IV

God, I don’t want to seem ungrateful,

you know I love you with all my heart.

But Jesus, please, why does it have to be

Christianity can’t get a handle on art?

 

As I was flipping through the channels, I came

across a TV host who claimed to know you.

But every segment made me sadder, and angry

at the sinners who find themselves produced.

 

They have fooled themselves

into believing that you are pleased

with them and their intentions are pure.

But, Jesus, if you came back

to downtown Nashville, I don’t think

you’d be well received anymore.

 

‘Cause this is our temple,

and this was the house of God,

but you would turn all our tables

and no one would even applaud.

Father, please bring the

industry to its knees;

I don’t want to be in league

with this den of thieves.

 

They’ve become money-grubbing

idolaters, selling Jesus stock,

but you will not find their names

in the book with the rest of the flock.

Father, please, keep your

blessings from the diseased;

I don’t want to be in league

with this den of thieves.

 

 

Forget The Cross

 

New artist in the Christian scene,

pretty face slapped in a magazine;

would you tell me how my spirit works?

Happy gatherings in old cafés,

given compliments for giving praise,

soaking up and basking in the industry’s perks.

 

Then you ask me if it hurt

when I was on the cross?

Only slightly worse than having

all your skin stripped off

            —it was excruciating!

And you think you can change

the world with pop songs;

you never saw me sitting there

with headphones on,

or hiding in my office.

Forget the cross;

now is what hurts!

 

Make millions for your ministry,

start another record company;

but do you ever think of me and weep?

Wear my name like it was never cursed,

stare inanely at the second verse,

praise my faithfulness for all the

money you keep.

 

But you speak as if Barabbas

was your closest friend,

and never count the cost of

all the loot you spend.

            It was humiliating!

And you think you can praise

my name without a heart,

keep steeping in the blessings

in the name of art, and have

your cake, and mine as well;

forget the cross,

now is what hurts!

 

Can you fathom what it means to be saved?

It means suffering and persecution, trails

and pain. So if you’re comfortable, well,

something’s got to change.

 

If I called you into martyrdom,

would you step away from stardom?

Or would you twist my words to

justify saving your name?

Sales are slipping as you watch the charts,

‘cause they’re finding what an arse you are;

what will you do now that

you’re falling from grace?

 

And you ask me if it hurt

when I was on the cross?

Only slightly more than having

all your sin stripped off

            —it was excruciating!

And you still think the world will

change with poorly written songs;

you never saw my cardboard cut-out

ten feet tall, or free CDs, or trophies.

Forget the cross,

now is what hurts!

 

 

Remembering The Fad

 

What would Jesus do

if he were here on earth,

VISA overdue and his

wife giving birth?

Would he run a tab and

stiff the waiter on the tip?

Would he go a little crazy

and kiss me on the lips?

Or would he be just like you?

Would he buy blocks of air time,

do signings for “The Bible, Vol. 2”?

 

No, Christ doesn’t need

your silly magazines.

Christ doesn’t need my

twisted poetry.

Christ doesn’t need you.

Christ doesn’t need me.

 

What would people say to see

Jesus on the wrong side of town,

smelling strong of cigarette smoke,

and weeping on the ground,

on a Wednesday night

when he should be in church?

Would we be offended

if he drank a little wine?

And wouldn’t it be some sort of outrage

if his teaching contradicted mine?

When will we realize?

 

Christ doesn’t need our

Christian music scene.

Christ doesn’t need that

four year degree.

Christ doesn’t need to

explain himself to me.

Christ doesn’t need your

breed of blasphemy.

Christ doesn’t need that

building down the street.

Christ doesn’t need you.

Christ doesn’t need me.

 

 

Let Me Fail

 

Father, I just don’t know anymore

if I’ve been seeking your will first,

yours before my own.

Father, I just can’t be sure

if it’s still you I’m searching for,

or if it’s just my pride.

 

Have I been lying to myself?

And you? Everyone else too?

I need to have some answers.

I need to hear from you.

 

Father, if my words are pale,

if my true intent is veiled,

if I’m only trying to make

a quick sale, let me fail.

If you’ve searched my heart and soul,

if my motive is not what I’ve shown,

if I’m trying to make this

journey on my own,

let me fail.

 

 

A Barista Reconciled To Himself

 

I couldn’t write a song to save

my life, or to justify my living at all,

but I’ve a nagging suspicion

that few of you really care.

You look ahead to your time in the

spotlight, but after all, it is only light.

I don’t want any part of your industry,

or time would make a mockery of me.

I think I’ll serve coffee for the rest of my life;

at least then I’ve accomplished something

tangible, kept a few more people

from falling asleep at the wheel.

 

 

Cough In A Blizzard

 

“So who’s next? Who will it be

to get spat out by the industry?”

Never fear, there’re oh-so-many more.

We are in no short supply of those

who hope to catch the public eye;

so many people need to be adored.

 

So let me introduce myself:

I’m nobody who will amount to anything

more than what I already am.

I’ve no desire to be some sort of strange celebrity,

who will dash your expectations into sand.

 

So I tell you now, before you raise your drink,

I’m not what you think; I’m just having fun.

I tell you all before you turn away,

I’ve nothing interesting or meaningful to say;

I’m a simpleton.

 

I guarantee you’ll find a million

more brilliant minds than mine;

I sincerely hope you’ll hear much

more pleasant voices reach your ears

—mine is terribly unclear!

You will likely also find

much more coherent written lines;

and you undoubtedly will see many

far more beautiful people than me

—I’m so very ugly!

 

But I’m here because I want you all to know

I’m just another ordinary Joe;

I’m not talented, or special, or unique,

and I never will be.

 

So I warn you now, before you lose your meal,

make no fuss, no big deal; it’s affecting no one.

I suggest you quickly take a bite, before you lose

your appetite, finding out what I’m like inside;

I’m a simpleton.

 

“So what now?  What will we do?

Who’s the money tree we’re looking to,

now that you’ve cut yourself down?

We need someone to compromise,

a sure success with no surprise....”

Don’t worry... there’re plenty of those around.

 

I tell you all, before you make your toast,

I’m nothing to boast; I’m worth running from.

I tell you all before I turn you off,

I’m no more than a cough in a blizzard of life;

I’m a simpleton.

 

 

Incomplete

 

Everything I ever said was incomplete.

Everyone I ever met was incomplete.

So stab me in the head;

need I elaborate instead?

Drink lead... you are better off dead.

 

Everything I ever said has distanced me.

Everything I ever felt was inwardly.

So kick me down the stairs

—you never would; you wouldn’t dare.

I can stare you down;

beware, you don’t scare me.

 

I’ve become the sort of person

I was trying not to be;

well, I must have been the victim

of some undermining scheme.

There’s a saying we hold

back in the old town;

“Everything be damned!”

 

Only thing I ever was was incomplete;

all that time pretending I was on my feet,

now seems to take eternity

to remedy and paint

the appropriate shading of gray.

 

Everything I ever spoke was lunacy.

Every lie I ever told was through my teeth.

So stake me through the chest;

I am a criminal at best—what a mess

I left you, under such duress.

 

I’ve been duped into believing

there is nothing to believe;

we sit for seven days, just

grieving seven new theologies.

And like Granddad used to share

from his rocking chair,

“Everything be damned!”

 

Everyone I ever liked was incomplete.

Everything I’ve yet to write is incomplete....

 

 

The Final Episode

 

To whom it may concern,

all of this will burn down,

and you’ll be holding the match.

There is a final truth,

rejected by the likes of you,

who occupy yourselves with the past.

And there is something wrong

with everything you’re dwelling on,

and frankly, you make me ill.

How could you be so honestly,

incredibly stupid? “Don’t say it!”

you say. “Oh, I will!”

 

These are the last words

you will ever hear from me;

I am tired, and I want to put

an end to everything.

These are the last words

I will ever write.

This is the last night

I will ever spend.

I have exhausted my supply;

I want this foolishness to end.

 

So I am moving on; I am tired of

harping on things that will not change.

There is nothing left for me to say,

and I am going away.

There is nothing more for me to say,

so I am going away.

 

Now isn’t that just what

you’ve always wanted,

for the finality of summaries to

wrap up the ending of time?

Would you dislike if, out if spite,

I revised these mighty volumes,

and added unnecessary lines?

And anyway, why should I care?

So many worse have fashioned

verses from despair. I have

gone quite beyond caring

for the public I’ve been sharing;

everything I ever thought

was right was wrong.

 

So I am gaining weight;

I never tire of sleeping late

—some things never change.

There is nothing left for me

to hate; I am going to waste.

There is nothing more for a

refrain, so I am going away.

 

I have never, nothing

ever more to say.

 

 

III.       Reels From The Sundae Mourning Jesus Show

 

When passion has been restored to God’s children, hypocrisy in his name is intolerable.  The sad truth is that the modern church falls miserably short of its mission when its congregations misapply readily accessible knowledge; it often fails to comprehend the overall picture of Christianity, tending instead to focus on those same regulations, expectations, and traditions which presented a stumbling block to the Pharisees.  Pride must indeed be overcome, and the church must rest in grace and applied wisdom if we are to truly live according to the gospel.

 

 

The Jesus Show Begins

 

Welcome, intruders!

Make yourselves at home.

We’re all just one big family

if you leave our gods alone

—our stone cold idols,

kept in cupboards and on shelves,

next to Dove Awards and platinums

we’ve collected for ourselves.

Please, make no mention

of our vain display of plaques;

but may I call attention to

our books and music racks?

(Where you may, perhaps, notice

with considerable dismay, the way

we “Christianize” everything,

and sell His holy name.)

And please, pay no heed to

this business we call “ministry”;

and never mind unkind attacks,

or healing, tongues, or prophecy.

Don’t let them bother you,

these truths we teach, but never use;

and take no notes on how

we tear into each other’s throats.

Sit right back. Relax, enjoy

the ever-amusing Jesus toy.

So come, you prejudged, right in;

The Jesus Show begins....

 

 

Worship Disservice

 

It’s Sunday morning,

light shines through,

stained glass eyes

peer down on you,

with critical expressions,

and useless illustrations,

and fundamental lessons

of recycled information,

crabby old ladies

waddle into the room,

wearing costume jewelry

and cheap perfume,

then a wrinkled old man,

in thinning white hair,

murmurs some words

to pretend that he cares,

and they all settle back

in their hard wooden pews,

to hear cold-hearted men

spouting closed-minded views

to the few prudes who listen,

and nod their empty heads,

and never grasp the meaning

of the passages in red,

where the Word says,

“There will be weeping there,

and gnashing of teeth....”

 

Hypocrites, beware; you’re completely

unaware of the vile state of your complacency.

 

Father, let them realize

the fog is thick before their eyes;

Master, make them see they’re

hurting those who really have a need.

Savior, I ask, come quickly, come fast.

(And help me while I’m here

to not be bitter toward the

wearers of your name,

your precious and

powerful name.)

 

 

The Least Of These

 

Bloated was I, with hunger;

you starved me.

Parched was I,

for blessing’s cool drink,

when you poured me sand.

Battered, like a punching

bag in practice was I,

cold and sick and helpless;

where were your hands?

 

I was the least of these;

you wouldn’t dry my eyes.

I needed comforting;

you wouldn’t hear my cries.

You saw me down the road

and turned the other way;

you probably didn’t know

they buried me that day.

 

Ragged and in need was I,

unheeded, homeless,

out of season, and betrayed,

loathsome, susceptible to virus,

handicapped and twisted;

still, you spit in my face.

 

I was the least of these;

you never knew my name.

I waited patiently for you

who never came.

Our bodies now lie in the grass,

four feet between; my grave

smothered with flowers,

yours with thorns and weeds.

 

 

I Never Knew You

 

When people look at you strange,

when you sing out of turn;

your color drains, humiliated,

everything burns.

When you misunderstand,

you believe what you feel;

religion is emotion, and

you can’t discern what’s real.

You tell me what its like

in places you have never been;

you open doors to fluff and flowers,

and assume we want in.

But it looks like a jest,

your impractical scene;

when they scream “insincere”,

don’t come running to me.

You modern day Pharisees,

phonies, facades;

who bow to your idols

and fashion your gods.

Haven’t you heard that

He’ll turn away who say

“I did it in your name”?

Haven’t you read, or will

you pale when he says,

“I never knew you”?

 

 

Sick To My Stomach On Wafers & Grape Juice

 

Normalcy—average, ordinary; well,

you shouldn’t be wasting my time.

Fantasy, I no longer face reality;

it slips away every time I try.

Pray for me, your meaningless speech;

the more general, the likelier result.

Blasphemy! I know my hypocrisies;

not that I prefer the catapult

into greater depths of sinking,

into thinking so fruitlessly,

drinking only misery and

blistering decisively.

Then waking into nothing,

and forcing back to sleep

unrest as tired of dreaming

as of harvest never reaped.

The hole in my mid-section splits;

out spills that counterfeit Christian grit.

 

Mockery, atrocities, atrophy;

I’m actually past flashing catch.

Flattery, back masked and dastardly;

make sense of me, instantly—a match!

Quote to me from the old KJV,

obscure poetry and literary form.

Treachery! Such useless obscenities,

and tragedy implicates yours truly.

At the hands of great Pilate,

I quietly and gratefully barrel over

sainthood, and waterfall hatefully.

Then heaves of gulping openly

disclose that all is lost,

and the debt and retribution

paid was higher than the cost.

The cracks in my cranium split;

down pours that counterfeit Christian grit.

 

 

Agent 42

 

You’ve been looking at me like

I carry some irretractable disease—

oh my, oh me, you’re so hard to please!

And it’s hard for you to believe

we’re part of the same family;

you question my integrity.

 

But I’ll see you on the corner

every midnight, with a suitcase,

if you promise never to mention my name.

 

And the code is: “My, how dark it is tonight!”

“Yet, never dark enough,” will be your reply.

And in the twilight, I’ll leave you

discreetly to your fears, repeating,

“My, how void it is of light!”

(Are you afraid you may be just like me?)

 

You’ve been eyeing my disguise

like I’ve been trying to capitalize

on weaknesses and lies.

There’ve been rumors on the street

that you’ve been trying to delete

the very memory of me from the files.

 

But I’ll see you in the meeting,

seated neatly by the window, if you swear

my words will never leave the room.

 

And the code is: “By Jove, isn’t it bright!”

“No sir, that’s only a reflection,” you reply.

And in the daylight, I’ll wake you

with a feigned indignation,

saying, “Hey now, you’re in for a fight!”

(Are you afraid you may appraise

as lowly as me?)

Are you ashamed? Are you

only in it for the money?

 

 

Not My Kind Of Jesus

 

They say you came here to love me;

they say you claim to care.

Why then do they hold themselves above me?

Show yourself, if you’re really there.

I beg your pardon, but the one they represent

is not my kind of Jesus.

 

They preach how you came down to save me;

why then are they so enslaved?

Take back this breath that sustains me;

I find much more comfort in the grave.

I beg your pardon, who they say the Father sent

is not my kind of Jesus.

 

Did he not hang with thieves?

Did he not cross the Pharisees?

Did he not die for me?

And did he not speak,

“Blessed are the meek”?

What did he mean?

 

Good Christians, they cling to religion,

fearful of, and frightened by the world,

reduce us all to swine and vermin,

protect their own reflection, shine their pearls.

Forgive me, but the illusion they depict

is not my kind of Jesus.

 

I thought Jesus stood against our

institutions, egos, riches, and pride;

I can’t decide if I’ve misunderstood what I read,

or if most of us just won’t let him inside.

Forgive me, but you people make me sick...

that’s not my kind of Jesus.

 

Did he not wash feet?

How did he treat hypocrisy?

Did he care how he was seen?

Do you discredit everything you read?

What sort of person must you be

to lie about my Jesus?

You must be blind to Jesus.

 

 

The Accountability Partner Murders

 

Dear sister, you failed me;

I looked up to you, and you let me down.

I was certain of only a few things;

one was how I could always count on you.

But sister, dear sister, look at you now.

 

Dear brother, I’m disappointed;

the real you finally broke through your shell.

You hurt a lot of very good people,

and made them swear that they would never tell.

 

Now your disciples have turned to me,

but I want to turn them away;

I’ll break the faith with mistakes,

and I’ll poison the name.

 

Dear father, do you see what you’ve done?

Did you know from the start there

was sin in your heart that would rise?

For a moment that lasted an eternity,

you blew all potential but one;

an empire came crashing,

was mashed into minuscule size.

 

Dear friend, I’ve done that terrible thing again;

that thing I confessed I’ve been

trying my best to despise.

Esteem me as low as a place you won’t go;

you think I’m angel, but angels are

dropping like flies.

 

Every time I’m going strong,

I find I’m suddenly weak in the knees;

that’s why I warn you,

I’m going to do as I please.

 

 

Why Can’t We Give More?

 

Two thousand years ago

we crucified him,

stood back in a stream of blood,

laughed at and denied him.

Two thousand years have passed,

yet we treat him the same;

we blaspheme vain complacence

and forget who wears the name.

 

We cried to him and he died for us;

why can’t we give more to Jesus?

 

Who’s to make excuses

when Daniel’s all alone?

Dad’s an alcoholic

and Mom is never home.

They ship him off to youth group,

so he sits there and pretends,

then walks out, lights a cigarette,

and the acting lesson ends.

 

The last time I saw Erika,

she seemed about to break;

she walked out on her “family”,

took what she could take, to

hit the streets that hit her back

enough to leave a mark.

Now drugs and sex and pan-

handling reopen every scar.

 

We cried to him and he died for us;

why can't we give more to Jesus?

 

Everybody knows by now

religion is a joke,

its air of vile hypocrisy

has caused us all to choke.

Our Sunday faces disappear

before we reach the door;

the Word’s reduced to nothing

that we haven’t heard before.

Sermons put us fast asleep,

the book’s collecting dust

—we have no need to act like we

could care about that Jesus stuff.

 

We cried to him and he died for us;

why can’t we give more to Jesus?

 

Me, I had enough of that

by growing up in church;

been saved since I was baptized

(so why do I still search?).

Lord, give us a burden

if you’re troubled by our sins;

convict us of our passiveness

once we invite you in.

Show us where the weakness lies

and pull our hearts to you;

break down our resistance

so we hear a truth or two.

 

We cried to him and he died for us;

why can’t we live more for Jesus?

Why can’t we give more?

 

 

A Skeptic In The Number

 

The man you had positioned by the door

did very nicely shaking my hand.

An usher found a seat—

I thought there weren’t anymore.

You worship to an eight-piece band.

And the woman I am sitting by smiles politely;

and I am still surprised that I’m here.

And the offering is purely voluntary, I believe;

and the pastor makes his lessons very clear.

 

But I don’t know these songs you sing;

they speak of unfamiliar things.

What do they mean—

Hosanna, Redeemer, and saved?

Some of you seem actually sincere—

I thought you wouldn’t be;

was Jesus really everything he claimed?

 

I see here on this paper

that you meet during the week

to pray for each other’s needs.

I think I’d like to try sometime;

I’d really like to see if your Jesus

cares about someone like me.

Mother was a Christian,

but I don’t think she believed,

the church we grew up in was dead.

I gave up on religion, still I feel I have to see,

if this Jesus really meant those things he said?

 

I’m not sure I understand;

what is Zion, who’s the Lamb?

What’s a gentile?

How can you be born again?

Some of you, it really seems,

know what this Bible really means.

Do you really see Him as a friend?

 

 

Upside Down

 

Hanging upside down,

world-view confused,

particle of “why”s;

I’ll try it if you think I should.

Dangling upside down,

bloodied and abused,

toe point into sky;

I’d fly away if I thought I could.

Made up, painted clown,

feelings yield to bruise,

salted drop in eye;

I cry the why you knew I would.

Red-lipped, bloated frown,

smeared and unamused;

if this is where the line is drawn,

say good bye—this is for good.

 

This is the last time you

will see my face this red;

it’s all the blood that’s

rushing down into my head.

I don’t deserve to be

so honorably crucified,

but I won’t be satisfied

until I’m dead inside.

 

Topsy-turvy ground,

no one can control,

nowhere left to go;

never dare sleep—stay awake.

Move without a sound,

the world takes its toll;

kick back, watch the show,

knowing full well

it’s a grave mistake

Sin, spin around,

take a round of strolls;

take them nice and slow,

growing into quite a fake.

The prodigal is found,

having dug himself a whole;

he dug himself so low,

he sowed much more

than he could take.

 

This is the last time you

will see my face this red;

with every thought, I plot

my rotting flesh instead.

I hold such blasphemous

hypocrisies with pride;

it won’t be rectified

until I’m dead inside.

 

Inside out and backwards,

there is much more to be seen;

gain a new perspective...

come hang upside down with me.

 

 

When I Settle

 

From square one, on a plastic cube,

a box of geometric feuds,

where fundamentals reinforce a truth,

and silence nods in gratitude,

or bows, confused, elusive moods,

and puppeteers endear our mortal youth,

we the fools are given ample muck

to cover all our wounded up, like stucco,

stuffed with hay, our private huts,

and we consume the offered samples

of such fervent fermentation,

sucked from cups twice the capacity

of dump trucks.

 

And I will proudly be the bum

from whom you bum a cigarette or two,

the vermin scum for whom you credit mettle;

I will indeed proceed relentlessly

to pierce my ear with loyalty,

if only you’ll accept me when I settle.

And if I know you, I know you will.

 

When I settle, I’ll be satisfied

with sleeping here alone,

and I won’t meddle in the

personal affairs that aren’t my own.

And perhaps this feigned expression

will be traded, from chagrin to a smile,

without sarcastic spasms

wearing pretense thin....

Oh someday, when I settle in.

 

Splinters in my back,

against the weight of every burden,

I spill to you my suffering and shame,

explicate the details, enumerate the hurting,

and kick you as you carry it away,

graciously, and faceless, crowned with sorrow,

I borrow your power to twist,

contort a sort of cohort,

divorce my own tomorrow,

dissect the blessed symbol of the wrist.

 

And I will gladly be the wretch

to whom you outstretch a hand or two,

the drugged up thug for whom you heat a kettle;

I will certainly concede to be

the breed who beg and plead,

if only you’ll direct me when I settle.

And if I know you, I know you will.

 

When I settle, I’ll be well content

with how you fill my cup,

and I never will complain about

the things I’ve given up.

And I may be truly happy,

or at least I may pretend,

and I may not be so morbid

—I may even make a friend!

Oh someday, when I settle in.

 

 

Now Might Be Nice

 

I’m trying to look through your eyes;

I’m trying not to hate.

But the darkness and the laughter

make me feel sometimes

that it’s too late.

 

I’m trying to care about you;

trying not to be so cold.

If I sent a dozen roses,

they would all be black;

I compliment less than I scold.

 

There’s a void I need for you to fill.

It’s hard for me to see, but

you keep telling me you will.

Now might be nice;

I really need some good advice.

But all I hear is silence, so I wait.

 

I’m trying to learn to hear you;

I’m trying not to talk so much.

All I really want is just a nod or a sign,

just any reassuring touch.

 

I’m trying hard to seek you;

I’m doing everything I know how.

You keep saying, “Just be patient, my child.”

I will... if you answer me now.

 

There’s a weight I need for you to lift;

isn’t that a major peace of the gift?

Now might be nice,

before I freeze in this sea of ice.

You say, “It just isn’t time yet.” So I wait.

 

There’s some baggage I need for you to take,

a truckload of my terrible mistakes.

Now might be nice; I thought

you said you paid the price.

Well, what about mine;

is it paid?

 

 

Bring Me Peace

 

I have been deeply unhappy.

I have seen my unfair share of dismay.

I’ve had my fingers burned, my back turned,

many knives stuck in my neck;

I have countless aberrations and regrets.

 

But I am tired of complaining.

I am tired of the whole of human race.

Recounting every sadness is as draining

as looking at the laughter on your face.

 

Bring me peace, Jesus, bring me peace.

Give me rest as if I were the very least.

All is empty save your majesty,

you look at me and weep with joy.

With tears, I fall in worship at your feet.

 

I have been irreparably wounded.

I have seen the darkest threads of earth.

I’ve had foundations shaken, security taken,

had spears rammed through my chest;

and I can only imagine what comes next.

 

But I am sick of this nagging feeling

that my reeling soul will never cease its pace.

Everything is grim and unappealing, still

I know that you can touch me with your grace.

 

Bring me peace, Jesus, bring me peace.

Be the beauty that can finally tame the beast.

In this loneliness of lowliness,

I look at you and weep with joy.

With tears you falter, reaching out to me.

 

 

Free

 

“I’m going to start this day off right,”

I say as I wake with the breaking light.

And in the clear, while everyone sleeps,

we’re in communion, my savior and me;

and he speaks to me in ways I can’t describe.

 

I have lived too long in bitterness,

hurt so many people I loved;

but now you take away the pain I felt,

replace it with a peace that I have never known,

and I am filled with a fresh sense

of beauty and joy.

 

And I don’t know what it is,

but I’d defend it with my blood;

I bask in the abundance

of your holiness and love,

and I am free.

 

 

Pour It On Me

 

I’d hold my breath

‘til I’m blue in the face as the ocean,

but I couldn’t get much bluer.

I’d rattle off words like a senator or atheist,

but never say anything truer than,

“For me, to live is Christ, to die is gain.”

 

All the loves in my past,

pretty faces that wouldn’t last,

laugh as the corners pull down,

then provoke and poke jokes,

as they open the envelopes of notes I wrote,

sealed with a frown; and the postscript,

“Take my advice, to live is pain.”

 

And God, how I need your grace!

So slip it, drip it, tip it...

pour it on me.

 

 

So Much To Be Desired

 

Oh Lord, no one understands;

they think that I’m a good man,

but Jesus, it’s all me.

Oh Lord, I only want your will,

but when you look at me there’s still

so very little Christ to see.

 

If I could only reflect

you a part of the time,

the light might be bright

enough to notice the shine.

If my friends reject you,

my guilt underlined;

my human example

is a far cry from divine.

 

I’ve worn your name around my neck,

but so often I neglect to write your words

on my heart. Oh Jesus, won’t you please

take this life, see me decrease,

so I can give the love you impart?

 

If I could only imitate you—

the life you require—

I might offer comfort by

the warmth of your fire.

If I could only demonstrate

you, possibly inspire;

but my human example

leaves much to be desired.

 

Please, please, don’t look at me!

Jesus is the way, the truth,

the life... and He’s my king.

I only claim to follow Him,

I never claimed I’m He.

I’ll fail you a million times,

but my Jesus will never leave.

 

I leave so much to be desired.

 

 

A La Carte

 

Pristine little princess,

hair pulled back tight,

self worth on the surface,

in the makeup and lights;

 

hero in the yearbook,

every picture, every page,

legend to the legions,

and advisor to the sage;

 

they shout from every corner,

“Get away, get away!”,

they beat you and they leave you,

and they send you on your way;

 

I don’t care if

you come unglued,

I’m there whatever

you’re going through,

I don’t care where

they bury you,

I love you, I love you.

 

Six o’clock a savior,

and a criminal by eight,

Friday night a socialite,

alone on Saturday;

 

Hansel and Gretyl,

there’s a witch in your stove,

witch, there is a Hansel

and a Gretyl out in the cold;

 

they shout from out the ginger,

“Get away, get away!”,

they heat you and deplete you

and sprinkle you with cane;

 

I don’t care if

you crumble through,

I’m there wherever

they’re serving you,

I don’t care how

they offer you,

I love you, I love you.

 

I don’t care if

you’re puppy food,

I’m there, looking

over your menu,

I don’t care how

they present you,

I love you, I love you.

 

 

Thank You, Amen (Praise Medley)

 

Father, I don’t know anything anymore.

Father, I don’t believe in anything anymore.

Maker, clear me from distraction;

teach me faith in action, and restore.

Father, you are God,

and you are the one we adore.

 

Spirit, save me from my foolish pride;

gracious Holy One, in me abide.

In humility we lift your name,

for your love remains the same.

 

Master, save me from my godless side,

use me, that you may be glorified,

let the heavens and the earth proclaim

that your truth remains the same.

 

Sometimes the simplest words

are the most sincere;

when you call him,

Jesus is near.

Sometimes the simplest words

ring most true; oh yes,

Jesus loves you.

 

Jesus, we love you.

Savior, we honor you.

Yahweh, we give you praise.

Thank you, Amen.

Spirit, we need you.

Messiah, we worship you.

Emanuel, we lift your name.

Thank you, Amen.

Thank you, Amen.

 

 

No Longer Alone

 

Quiet time takes on a whole new meaning;

suddenly clouds break, the shaken

no longer careening. Strangely,

unexpectedly changed, I am,

far from home; suddenly, finally,

I am no longer alone.

 

A window looks through over cars outside,

now freshly ordered where chaos

and beauty collide. Promise and hope

drip from silver surrounding his throne;

finally, I can be free from feeling alone.

 

And Jesus, what can I say but I love you?

And what can I do but remove myself

from this world? There’s a love that runs

deeper, and mountains much steeper

than any measurement known; amazingly,

wonderfully, I am no longer alone.

 

 

IV.       Cartoon Bin

 

Now that we see the world for what it is—old, wicked, self-seeking, ignorant and unfair—we see cracks in what youth saw as luster.  God’s view of earth transfers to us in greater measures by waves; now in cities, now in traffic, now in the menacing growl of government.  We ache to be taken to our home in heaven, and suffer the duration of inanity until our time comes, looking always to the skies.

 

 

I Live In A World

 

Shut the windows,

lock the doors,

rob the widows,

eat the poor.

I live in a world where

unity and love are one-sided;

if you can’t clear your mind,

you aren’t invited.

And the lunacy’s

infectious as a genital rash;

and it all comes down

to cash, cash, cash.

 

Bludgeon Spurgeon,

Christian-I’s,

inner child with

blackened skies.

I live in a world where every

flake believes himself a channel,

where truth needs

revision by a panel.

Silva masks on Masters,

intellectual void,

cracked skulls

destroyed... Troyed... toyed.

 

Abducted,

deconstructed,

stuck in ruts,

and mucked up, busted.

I live in a world where murder

and pornography are legal,

where criminals are

free and living regal.

I’m still taken aback, in

fact, that we are still alive;

oh, don’t you want

to die, die, die?

Would you mind?

My burning eyes

are dry, dry, dry.

And to you all,

good bye... good bye.

 

 

My Front Yard Is A Highway

 

My front yard is a highway...

some developer planned it that way.

Every morning I wake up to a traffic jam.

I’m surrounded by byways where I live,

postpone my walks until rush hour gives.

I’m really starting to hate being where I am.

 

My front yard’s a bloody highway;

the trees are chopped down,

you pull into my driveway

when you turn around.

My front yard is a highway,

where you rarely hear crickets

over the sound of motorcycles

going way too fast.

 

I’d sit out on the porch, but I’m afraid

to breathe the air; walk barefoot in my

patch of grass, if there weren’t

glass and beer cans everywhere.

 

My front yard is a highway,

with a long, long median,

where cars crash and lives end.

My back yard is a parking lot,

burns my feet when the sun gets hot;

there’s not a lot of reason to stay,

except the cheap rent.

 

My front yard is not a yard at all;

there’re three dead trees,

some dirt, some weeds,

and a bush that’s very small.

I’m just across the street from a grocery,

and ten minutes away from a mall.

 

I’d plant roses in the garden

if I thought they might survive;

it’s difficult enough to keep the

squirrels and birds and moles alive.

 

My front yard is a killer.

My front yard is not civil.

 

 

Circuitboard Earth

 

As the shaky ground falls farther away,

you stare out the distorted window pane,

watch as the model of earth stretches out,

fades into boxes as wires reroute.

Clouds of diluted solutions below,

blend into oceans, frosted with snow.

 

Circuitboard Earth falls away.

 

Natural masses of alloy and steel,

toy with ideas and mimic the reels.

Is this advancement? Is this progress?

Is our technology some great success?

We plow the field of nature’s laws,

and never mind the ruin caused.

 

Circuitboard Earth falls away.

Circuitboard Earth falls away.

 

 

Must Have Been Nice

 

Used to be you could

see for miles and miles

without really trying.

Now it seems we

package all our dreams

in a casket, like

they’re already dying.

Used to be something

beautiful and clean

before we tried to

recreate it on our own;

guess it means what

was peaceful and serene

was better left alone.

 

It must have been nice.

 

 

Don’t Save The World For Me

 

Don’t save the world for me

…I don’t want it;

I turn my head and grit my teeth

at everything on it.

 

Talk about beauty, cliché

our duty as humans

—you’re fooling yourselves.

 

Don’t save the animals

or the forests for me;

I’d rather just get it over with

and part company.

 

Talk as loud as you want

—nobody’s listening; we’re

too busy making babies to kill.

 

Don’t save the world for me

…it’s a waste of time;

turn your attention inside,

or you’ll get left behind,

to inherit a planet where you

can’t even protect your skin or eyes.

 

Politics and interest groups lie.

 

 

Teaching Teachers

 

Teaching teachers seems

a sort of stupid thing to me;

they go on being taught that

there are many more to teach.

Quoting quotes may be

a most unnecessary thing;

all they say is that a more

impressive mind agrees.

 

Don't you think at all?

Don't you feel small?

 

Working for a living

has me a little bit confused;

exhausted, clocking overtime,

how much living can you do?

 

What have we done?

What have we done?

What have we done?

 

 

Wisdom

 

The scholar, he is wise in his own eyes,

he weighs all evidence on his degree;

the educator disregards the words of his creator,

for affirmation, looks to his Ph.D.

But I doubt he could define a solid answer

in his own mind, who accepts only what

he misunderstands; by refusing to be fed

he could have ever been misled,

he denounces the very earth

on which he stands.

But the apostle Paul wrote in his letter

to the Romans, that the wicked

—indeed all—are without excuse;

we could for centuries debate

the revelations of the faith,

but frankly, I don’t see the use.

For what can be known about God

is plain by observing—

simply by looking at the skies;

and you who think it ignorant

to humbly be obedient, quite honestly,

just aren’t willing to try.

For the man without the Spirit cannot

accept the things which come from it,

for they are foolishness to him;

they are spiritually discerned,

a privilege he must earn. And there

is fair judgment by spiritual man.

So the problem is not God, but that you refuse

to seek him, a pride that comes before a fall.

For claiming to be wise, you became rather a fool;

but he will be acknowledged—by all!

Surrender your pointless learning

of the philosophies of men

that have brought you no peace

to the feet of the Lamb of Zion,

the great I Am, the savior of mankind,

who in the Holy Trinity died

that you may yet live.

[Rom 1:18-23; I Cor 2:10-15]

And you think I simply lost my

poignancy; what a grand joke!

 

 

Simple Truths,  Parts I & II

 

I

The far left and far right are both wrong

and both right, as far as I’m concerned.

Interest groups and lobbyists, agendas,

platforms, offices are selfish and shameful,

and they’ve got a lot to learn about politics,

and how it’s really all irrelevant. Society’s

a lost cause, corrupting all the government.

Bills and Constitutions and amendments

and all that... none of it will last until

Jesus comes back. “Wait,” you say,

“I don’t believe it’ll be that way.” Well,

sorry, but that doesn’t make it wrong.

See, I go by the only book that’s ever been

consistently right in everything it’s claimed;

if you don’t believe it now, well then,

that’s your choice, but you will believe

it someday. I’m not preaching, I’m just

telling you what the Bible says.

 

II

My survival guide to life,

you still think is a fairy tale,

and you hate to even think about

“religion for the self-serving pricks;

church is a convention of racists and liars

and hypocrites.” Well, of course it is; but

that’s because so few are really willing,

or know how, to submit.

But some are truly following Jesus,

though rare and very few;

and these are simple truths.

 

The liberals and misinformed

are so hostile and adamant;

they shout “closed-minded!”,

and it echoes from their hollow heads.

(On hearing that, a militant became

enraged, and flames shot out her ears;

“I can’t believe he said that,”

she sneered, “I want him dead!”)

But dear, “choice?”, killing children?

My friend, I’m not amused;

and these are simple truths.

 

You pose the same questions I asked

when I didn’t want answers, but wanted out;

I tell you, don’t ask unless you’re honestly

ready to hear. You will find that,

much more than mere science, or magic,

or delusions that appeal to the eye,

is the love that surpasses

understanding and human pride.

And if you think Jesus was only a man,

he was still a better man than you;

and these are simple truths.

 

By now, I’ve made a legion

of hedonists fully resent me,

and only by taking a moment

of their precious time;

the godly life is sacrifice, sub-

mission to the Trinity who sent me.

My sole reward? His blessings poured,

and living for eternity with Christ.

It’s worth having this world hate me

(I’ve got more enemies than

I know what to do with);

but these are simple truths.

 

 

Alma-Mater

 

It’s hilarious to me that you’re caught up in this

downright deception, this meaningless abyss;

“I don’t want to be here,” I sit and complain,

“in the midst of this constant, unalterable strain.”

 

So ha ha, hee hee...

this isn’t where I want to be!

Oh no, boo hoo...

this isn’t what I want to do!

You pile on the work,

you idiots! You jerks!

You’re building up a wall that’s

going to crush you when it falls!

 

You stifle me a trifle, see?

You ruin what is art.

You suppress creativity;

it’s frozen in your heart.

With policies and lies, you teach

short cuts and compromise;

You try and tell me what to do

while all your efforts ring untrue.

 

So ha ha, hee hee...

I wish you wouldn’t bother me!

Oh no, boo hoo...

I’ve lost all respect for you!

You’re wasting all my time,

I’m mapping out the war lines;

you’re stacking up the bricks

—you make me sick!

 

You crush imagination

and lose sight of what is real;

you break my concentration

and you don’t care how I feel.

Why don’t you just go away?

There’s nothing you can say

to make me change my mind;

I tire of hearing lies you feed the blind!

 

So ha ha, hee hee...

that’s the way it has to be!

Oh no, boo hoo...

you can’t tell me what to do!

 

Now listen up teachers,

educators, preachers,

you’re monotonous prattle

isn’t worth a dime!

 

 

The World In A Nutshell

 

I will now proceed to solve

all of your problems

and meddle in your menial affairs;

I’ll tell you how the ills of

this dung pile came into being,

and why none of you should care.

 

First there was a clap of God’s

hands, and then the earth cooled,

yada-yada-yada... big flood,

blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah

…Jesus, then Joseph Smith,

and then the eighties hit;

by then we were so inbred,

the clever ones took mallets

to their own heads.

 

And that’s this world in a nutshell,

this crazy mess of mass murderers,

marauders, and drug-taught ventriloquists,

atheists, and several other species of idiotic,

brain dead morons—you are all such morons,

and I want to run away, but there is nowhere

you haven’t blown your hot air, or dared

disrupt the balance of nature.

The world in a nutshell is a

hell of a nutty place to be.

 

I will now continue, elaborating vaguely,

with an abstract example of a late

stupidity attack; the Goodyear

in Brentwood overcharged me $200

and a list of patrons will never go back.

 

Sometimes I want to tie wire

through your tongue, then spin

you from a windmill in Sweden;

ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa...

am I truly sick? No, that’s just my early

Manchester kick; back then they could

complain about terribly poor taste

and bad camera tricks.

 

And that’s this life in a nutshell;

oh well, I guess it really

could have been much worse.

(Actually, on second, third, and

fourth thoughts, this is just about as

bad as it gets.) Yes, I am quite certain;

it makes me want to paint myself green,

and say obvious things to

a blur too blind not to notice.

This world in a nutshell is a

hell of a nutty place to be.

The world in a nutshell seems one

hell of a nutty place to me.

 

 

Steven, I’m With You

 

Steven, I’m with you;

people are much, much, much

too selfish and rude.

I think we’d all do well to take a lesson

and end civilization right here.

Oh, carry on, carry on,