Everlasting Gospel

Light of Forgiveness
We perpetuate Darkness
If we do not sin.

Jesus Antithesis

Oh Jesus of Immorality, please leave us,
Take with You the two thieves,
The ones who now steal from the poor
In Your name,
Take with You the non-repentent
Moralists who chastise everyone but themselves,
Who believe they are the Righteous,
The Chosen,

Bleating Lamb of God
Go ahead and take away
The Sins of the Bloodstained World
That You have created,
Where You sit on the board
Of the modern Sanhedrin,
Dictating to us Your deals of salvation
Where our investment in You
Is slowly being eaten away
By Your greedy Believers,
Who have created a Heaven
Only for themselves,
Where the hungry are not fed,
Where the naked are not clothed,
Where those imprisoned are not made free,

In Your name,
I, Stephen, defended you in front of the Council,
In Your stead, You made me Protomartyr,
To be crushed under the weight of stone,
While You turned and smiled upon Saul,
Who held the bloody Hell’s Angels’ colors of the Twelve Tribes,
Who became blinded by Your light
To become the Great Chastiser,
Turning his wrath upon the Jews,
In Your Name,

In Your Name,
St. Mary Magdelene preached Your true gospel,
Only to be driven off by frightened men,
Who feared the loss of power
That You had only bestowed upon her,
Your celestial lover
To whom You appeared at Your
Time of dying,
Admonishing her “Do not touch Me,”
In Your Name,

Oh Jesus of the Well of Souls,
Who calls upon the lowly Samaritan woman
To draw out yet more suffering for You,
Chastising her for her sensuality
While looking upon her with lustful eyes,
Dismissing Your so-called Apostles
Who criticized You,
Take all of these pious followers and leave,

Then come back,
In the words of St. James,
As a “Wild Child, full of Grace,
Savior of the Human Race,”
Not as some sword wielding
Angel of Death and Fire,
Riding a sway-backed, haybelly horse,
Trampling the putrid decay of Humanity,
Blowing trumpets of remorse and sorrow,
Walking ghost-like on the road to Emmaus,
Invisible upon the Bloody Cross,

Come back and lead us,
Not in our sinfulness and iniquities,
But in our Godliness,
Our Holiness,
Our Lovingkindness and Compassion,
Show us Your miracles,
Turning our water into wine,
Healing our sick,
Raising our dead,
Because if you can’t
Come back different than you are now,
Then, in the words of St. Martin,
“You, ain’t my Jesus.”

Church Of The Robotic Jesus

The all metal Jesus with upraised hands
Reaches to the ceiling that is shaped
Like a Ouija board pointer
Pointing to Alpha and Omega,
Intertwined with the Borromean Rings,
At Communion the Robotic Jesus takes off,
Saying loudly, "I am the Beginning and the End,"
Flying overhead
Through the Twelve Stations of the Cross,
Lurching along
Making loud noise,
Spewing out hot sparks
Like a Buck Rogers spaceship,
The painted-on heart of Jesus
Surrounded by black lightning bolts,
His tinny face unsmiling
As he sails through the pseudo-heavens,
Smoky red eyes
Looking for the Protomartyr
In the faces of the crowd,
Who crawls between the pews
Wearing a cheetah's hide,
Averting his eyes from the glare
Of the Metallic Saviour.

Stand Up Comedy As Poetry

When you walk out or up or down to read,
Trip yourself just before the podium,
Look sheepishly, turn reddish,
Try to look like Alfred E. Neumann
As you fumble with the PA system
Keep saying, “Does this thing work?”
Then stroke back your hair with your right hand
Holding your poem in your left,
Keep stroking as you read,
Starting seriously with a poem about Viet Nam:
“My Mother wants to take me to Viet Nam,
To visit all the places where I spent
Ten harrowing months of my life in 1969,”
Then finish with this line:
“Mom, you want to go to a whorehouse in Saigon?”

Spaces

Space equals distance,
The difference between two imaginations,
The confluence of words
Between which are spaces
Between letters,

Betweenness, closeness,
Far-apartedness,
Titillating harmonious absentness,
Separations of dislikedness,
Interior decorum of outerness,

Flyspeck on the wall equals wall
With distant fly
Delineating the space between
Fly and wall
A pair of jeans
Fly open.

Spirit Deer

We don’t know how to talk to you anymore,
We just don’t have the time,
But there you were
In the middle of 351st Street,
A country gravel road in Miami County,
Your rack identified you as a survivor
Of the onslaught of city hunters,
Coming out to the country
With new guns, new ammo,
New camouflage pants and coat,
New boots,
Trussed up like a Christmas goose,
Ready to take out any big trophy buck
That shows up in their Leupold sights,
The funny thing is they have never seen you,
Probably never will,
You turned your magnificent head,
Staring directly into the Blazer’s headlights,
Undaunted now as you must have been eons ago,
When you confronted a human on foot,
Turned your head her way,
Recognized her as Medicine Woman and spoke
The language of the Spirit,
Giving her strength and knowledge.