Thoughts of a God that crucified His own Son.

I was inspired to pull out an older piece I had written awhile back when I was in a strange place.
Maybe I was channeling e. e cummings.
Maybe I was losing God.
Maybe I was coming off drugs.

Not sure, it was awhile ago.

********************************************************************

Thoughtfully inspired bliss

amiss

Christmas spreading muddy joy (Psst, do you hear the
angels sing?)

I saw His son’s face
bleeding on a button
somewhere.

Did he really just forget?

A man loves to send his son away
to die.
Does he forget?

I have his son’s name written somewhere.

Check my spoon.
(Could you eat without a spoon or would you die like His son?)
(Psst. Look at him squirm…Why are those damn angels singing?)

I am repulsed by their joy.

A sponge reminds us, reminds me of the pain,
in vain,
for dopes
who molt STUPIDITY.

Like a thousand birds,
strung out,

spaced on a wire.
(Pssst, I have been spaced on a wire.)

Shitting on the statue of fleshy cold marble,
“The Boy who Died in Vain.”

Maybe not in vain.
Maybe in Detroit.
(A city dreams do not even venture to go.)

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2 comments

    1. Thank you for your thought. I am struggling through a patch so I resurrect some earlier work I felt relevant.
      I have always liked the sound of words, how they interact and help to tell a story like color in a painting.
      My original blog site dealt with perspectives…different perspective and certainly “translate” is consistent with that goal.
      Please return.

      Like

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