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.
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