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


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

I saw His son’s face
bleeding on a button

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.)



    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.


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