Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

“The drugs don't work no more.”
--The Vincent Black Shadow

He stuffs sins
in a cardboard box
until the lid barely fits.

Their fleshy bodies
strain against
the air holes
as he pokes his
finger around the lip of the box
cramming them further
and further down
as the little squeals
of the damned
lick his ears.

He wraps it carefully
with a pretty pink bow,
grabs a pen and writes:

To God: Thanks for all the laughs.

Society of the Soundless

Society of the Soundless

"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778), (Attributed)

"It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

The Hushes
march down Main Street
teaming up on any Screams and Yells
they may find;
They shove
newspapers and holy books
into their victim's loud mouths
until they are muffled.

Fearful, the free Screams and Yells
go silent. Too afraid of
being muffled; they lose their
voice and become Whimpers.

Aside from the occasional
Shout that is quickly
hunted down and silenced,
we have become
a society of the soundless
living in a library
of books
that we are forbidden to read.

And what of me?

I will become a whisper
dancing between the ears
of the Quiet
and when enough of us
add our whispers together,
we will roar.

Ember Ashes

Ember Ashes

"If God lived on earth, people would break his windows."
--Jewish Proverb

Embers in the autumn air
the blistering kisses of the damned
as they search for a soul to singe.

Embrace the fiery pinpricks
in the godless sky
and turn your soul to ash.

Drop from angel cluttered clouds
and fall lightly in the hands of hypocrites
that smudge their foreheads
leaving grubby fingerprints
on all they touch.

Watch as the pageant of degenerates
with soot covered genitals
bow to intersecting beams of wood
and pretend to be cannibals.

They are religious gluttons
that fail to realize
that communion is an act of sharing
not of consumption.

Echoes of the Adhan

Echoes of the Adhan

"Colors fade, temples crumble, empires fall, but wise words endure."
--Edward Lee Thorndike (1874 - 1949)

Crates of bobbleheads
wash up on the shores
just south of Jeddah.

Waves crash
as vacant stares
jiggle in the desert sun.

Soaked in Red Sea salt
they awkwardly stumble east
toward the house
that Abraham built
only to get lost
and melt
in the midday sun.

The last sound
to linger
in their little plastic ears
is a call to prayer
in the unfamiliar
language of God.

The Fragile Stain

The Fragile Stain

"A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic."
--Joseph Stalin (1879 - 1953)

She breaks bottles in the parking lot.

Slowly, she fingers the jagged edges
and leaves streaks of her soul
smudged on the shattered surface.

Shards chew through
the ridges of her fingertips
and eventually find their way
into the wet breath of God.

The fragments of glass
course through her veins,
and gather in her heart
where they form a blood tinted
stained glass window.

Alone and surrounded by adversaries
I fall with blood in my mouth
and ringing in my ears.

I clutch at the shadows
of my killers
as flesh fails
and I give birth to my soul.

As I leave my body
and become an after-image
in the eyes of my enemies;
my vision blurs and
I see her with bleeding hands
behind the smeared glass.

We hover on opposing
sides of the fragile stain
separated behind
the remnants of broken bottles.

My heaven and
my hell
are found in the bloody
fingerprints of absentee Gods
hiding in the hearts
of the homeless.