Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The First Church of the Wrath of Baby Jesus (Right Reverend Gardner)


Welcome to the First Church of the Wrath of Baby Jesus, where we respect the old-fashioned ways, even if we think they weren't quite old-fashioned enough for our tastes. Here the fear of God is still top dog, on account of all the other dogs being complete pussies.

Baby Jesus doesn't put up with your shit. If weekly fire and brimstone sermons don't get you to shamefully hide your sins from society like a normal human being, then by God, once the Wrath is done with you, you won't be able to tell your ass from your elbow. What's more, you'll like it that way and be grateful for it.

The Church of the Wrath tells only Truth. We're not gonna bullshit you and tell you everything's okay when it's not. In fact, we'll probably start screaming before you even know there's anything wrong. Join now and get in on our limited-time offer to become part of our Canned Goods and Bullets Drive. How does it work? Donate thirty dollars a month to the Church for our stockpile of canned food and ammunition, and then when civilization goes to Hell in a handbasket and the world begins to burn, we promise we'll skip over your house when we begin trawling through the neighborhood for food and supplies.

Come to the First Church of the Wrath of Baby Jesus: We're not weird like the others!

Saturday, September 5, 2009

My Father’s Years of Coltrane, Miles Davis and Billie Holiday as I Watch from the Stairs

My Father’s Years of Coltrane, Miles Davis and Billie Holiday as I Watch from the Stairs



I stared from those stairs for years 

watching my father sadly suck in that smoke 


Autumn Leaves echoing up into the stairway,

swelling and with each passing moment

leaving, leaving me.

Like a passing stranger’s glance in all its glory

it looms, drunk on power, only to slowly burn out.


Voices of yesterday,

singing from the tombstones across the bridge,

strung from poplar trees,

cry of their troubles.


Like the dead pigeon that lays in the gutter

with its bulging eyes

rooted in hot asphalt, dirt and pebbles,

the music that twists and twists

till I feel nothing.