Needless Storms, Needless Nightmares

Through the belly of the midnight storm,
like Jonah in the wallowing whale,
the world remained all aswarm
with rain and wind and biting hail.
The downpour fell heavy as if thrumming
like a blacksmith’s hammer upon the sword
held in Christ’s mouth, his Second Coming
among thunder and lightning—a wrathful lord.
Trees thrashed about in terror-blind mobs
as if to uproot themselves from the earth and go,
and black clouds shrouded behemoth knobs
while the Dragon’s wings deafened all below.
And among the fraying thunderhead
there floated ever after the Reapers,
phantoms wandering from bed to bed—
bad dreams visiting peaceful sleepers.

Not So Hard Pressed To Follow Suit

It is a steam-pressed sort of
Sunday morning,
the sun gliding low upon the
damp horizon
like a clothes-iron burning
the mists up from a
washed-out blue suit sky,
and the church bells ring
within the bright white steam
that deepens in the valley
while the fussy, prim flocks
crowd the purblind roads
and sit, stiff-collared, in the stuffy pews,
uncomfortable in their starched
creed,
hoping to keep their proper suits from
burning
in the
Devil’s laundromat;
whereas I lay out
relaxed,
naked to the skin in the nave
beneath your steepled legs,
lounging among wrinkled sheets,
sleeping in with you
while easy breezes billow
playfully against the
ghosts
on the laundry line,
knowing myself to be
folded neatly
in this cozy spread of
Heaven.

 

(Dedicated to my fiancee, Falon, with whom I wish to spend every such Sunday.)

Assumption

Frogs and toads gather
upon the onyx highway,
squatting in oily rainfall
with their heads raised skyward
and their eyes bulging wide with
unblinking expectation,
like kneeling believers
beseeching their
God
in ardent prayer.
They are a
Heaven’s Gate flock,
a
suicide cult
awaiting the Assumption
to come with
brightening haloes—
amphibious souls
caught between two worlds
and
awaiting the rending
radiance
of swiftly approaching
headlights
from out of unheeding darkness
into unheeding darkness,
an elusive scrawl of
meaninglessness
strewn
messily
along
the
way.

Spiritual Dysphoria

It was not unlike the prognosis of
body integrity identity disorder,
but I had to cut it off,
despite having invested so much of
myself
into growing that misplaced limb of
belief,
faith,
religion;
dogma being a limb grown hitherto
from within the womb.
But I had to remove it
before its
eschatological appendicitis.
And I understand why many people react
violently
to losing their religion,
just as they would losing a
leg
or arm
or even their head,
because it is an attack on the self,
a psychosomatic assault
which is registered as such in the
brain’s errant cauldron of
miswired nerves and biochemistry;
but I had to cut it off
after spending many years
in the frigid frostbite realms of Reason,
cauterizing the rotten wound with
merciless progress.
It was, after all, a
liability soon replaced
by a more efficient prosthetic.
Even so,
there are times when,
in the shadow of fight or flight circumstances,
I feel the irrational itch
of my
phantom limb
and wish to encode myself fully
into modernity’s machines,
finally liberating myself,
if only temporarily,
from superstition’s angsty, tingling
codex of nerves.
What is this errant sensation I feel
in the dark, fearful hours of life?
It is merely a nagging pop-up error
in my cerebral matrix
for hardwired software
long ago deleted.

The Anthropophagi

Their barbarism is born of
idealism,
the fervor of their
cannibal appetite
compelled unto frenzy
by the holy need to achieve
ideological purity,
whether it be in the belief that
Jesus Christ would cast
nonbelievers into the pits of
Hell
or that infidels should be purged
in a jihad of chemical death
or that a man can become
a woman
by surgically inverting
his genitals,
or that ogling polygonal
tits
is a part of rape culture,
or that all billionaires—
regardless of lives saved
as doctors
or lawyers
or inventors
or even investors—
are wicked white men
that have oppressed the rest of
humanity;
they eat their own
to cull their herd
and become stronger
by becoming weaker,
refining their ranks
with a pair of neutering clippers
and a chopping block
(shoulder roast whose
seasoning sauce
is nuance)
until cleanliness-cum-godliness
elevates puritanical
savages
unto Saturn’s
apotheosis
and they are left
all alone,
gnawing their own
tongues.