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.

Drowning Angels

This picture is entitled, "Blind Flight".

Drowning Angels

The echoes of
unspoken words
are prayers
to drowned angels
caught in the fishing nets
of blind men.

They pull in their catch
and dine on angelic flesh
only to sprout wings,
take flight,
lose their boat,
and fall into the sea.

Ill at ease with stolen wings
they rip them from their backs
renounce their claim on divinity
and die as men
that know the comfort
of regret.

Domesticated Magicians

This picture is entitled, "Lonely Familiar".

Domesticated Magicians

Harvest
the remnants of whispers
dangling between
dead lovers.

(leathery sacs
that catch on the ridges
of queasy fingertips)

Greedily,
stuff them in your mouth;
feel them envelop
teeth and tongue
as they spread to moist throat.

Each urge to cough
is a bruised word
that slips on bloody lips
and drops
into the pockets
of fallen magicians
who have sold their secrets
in order to secure
a home in heaven.

Empty Mirror

This picture is entitled “Empty Mirror”.

Empty Mirror

You're a twisted
little lick.

A fleshy little prayer
hidden in the
fingerprints
of absentee lovers
whose ethereal hands
trek lonely skin
seeking affection
in a beggar's cup.

fold-back; quiver
and burst

The change
in the tip jar
falls among
the broken glass
slicing greedy fingers
that smell of musk
and hopelessness.

Years later,
she buys a mirror
and tries to master
the fine art
of kissing her
reflection,
only to discover
that she doesn't
exist.

Disassembly Required

This picture is entitled "Used Parts".

Disassembly Required

My heaven is not
a solitary streetlight
in the dark cosmic expanse
where dislocated souls
flop eternally against
smudged glass
begging entry
to a highly selective
source of light.

My soul courses
through flesh
and when my body fails,
it will fall into
my mother’s womb
where the blocks
that built me
will be pulled apart
and used to build
something else.

After all,
we are assembled
from used parts
merely loaned to us
for a season.

Grief Eater

This image is entitled "Grief Eater".

Grief Eaters

Pudgy little demons
suck on the corner
of her eyes
and feed on the tears
her soul refused
to let flow.

Soon,
they will gorge
themselves
and fall
back into hell.

They become
moist tidbits
for thirsty masters
that have long since
forgotten the
necessity of sorrow.

Ecstasy of Drowning

Ecstasy of Drowning

When we kiss,
our tongues melt
and drip
from the corners
of our mouths.

We are wet breath
on moist flesh
and rain on each
other until we become
a storm.

The world floods
and we float naked
before the universe
unaware of anything
but the ecstasy
of drowning in each
other’s arms.

God is a Mirror

God is a Mirror

When a puppet dangles by one string,
it is easy to confuse it with a noose.

When the puppeteer jerks
too hard,
we find ourselves
falling upward
toward God.

We hover briefly
before the Almighty
almost convinced
of His existence
until we notice
God is merely a mirror
and our own reflection
is staring back.

Gravity prevails
and we watch ourselves fade
as our point of origin
and destination
converge.

Viewed at a distance,
we are nothing more
than dark specks
trailing tattered strings
against blue sky
and white clouds
destined to become
bruised flesh
and crimson mist.

Tell me once again
of God... and this
time, try to conceal
the fact you're
lying.

Human Sea

This picture is entitled "Wave Runner".

Human Sea

"There are nearly 6.5 billion people on Earth; each one of our bodies carries roughly ten gallons of water. We are a living ocean."

Our essence is wet.

There is an ocean inside
our fragile frames;
it courses through us,
connects us,
and laps against our foundation.

We are merely shores
on which common waves break
--barely contained puddles
with leaky souls.

Navigation to foreign coasts
is a hazard seldom attempted
and rarely attained.

When we dream,
we wade into familiar waters
that have passed
through billions of souls
and float in unison
with strangers
temporarily disregarding
corporeality.

We swallow and are swallowed
thinking ancient thoughts
and forgetting ourselves
until we wade back to shore,
dry off,
and go back to the house
with two oval windows.

Kisses My Soul

Picture entitled "Alternate Sappho".

Kisses My Soul

I am currently falling through god. When I hit bottom, hopefully, there will be enough residue left over to rebuild something --maybe something useful this time.

My reflection
leaks from the mirror
as I slip in the
remnants of my soul.

She speaks to me
in a Sunday voice
(the past mixed with
passion and reverence)
and says,

"Let me stain
your tongue
and drip from
the corner of your smile;
swallow me
and make us one."

Drunk on ghosts;
I fall into bliss
only to wake
at sunset
and die with the sun.

Spitfire and Monkey

My cats Spitfire and Monkey.

Children of Bizarre Gods

Figure 1: "Children of Bizarre Gods".

Children of Bizarre Gods

Say: I am only a warner, and there is no god but Allah, the One, the Subduer (of all):
--Suad 38.65, The Koran

Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
--Exodus 20:3, The Bible (King James Version)

I. Shelter of the Lilith Kindred

She is easily deceived
by Jehovah's horny angels
who fled fluffy clouds
to crash her Bacchanalian
celebrations.

(Shadows born of
candles dance on
the angled wallpaper
of her studio apartment
as she finds lovers
in the wisps of
smoke curling around
her fingertips.)

The party crashing seraphim
whisper into her guilt filled
ears that satyrs are demons
and she'll go blind
if she keeps playing
with their horns.

But kisses come
more quickly than wisdom
as she pedals her
sagging spirit
through endless cycles
of lust and loneliness.

(Over-chewed fingernails
result in throbbing keystrokes,
crimson splattered mouse pads,
and broadband stigmata
as she immerses herself
in chamomile tea
and Jack Daniels.)

In the right light,
bloody Band-Aids
are makeshift altars
to newborn gods
hiding from
crosses and crescents
as worshippers
are forced
to chase binary
moons across
digitized fields
and the ancient ways
fade from her balcony
in slow motion
as Diana flees
at a rate of
38 millimeters
a year.

(Centuries later,
she fingers bruises
while counting ceiling tiles
barely reaching double
digits before
the other person
in her apartment
grunts, shudders, and slides
from her moist flesh
free-falling
through dirty laundry
into peeling linoleum
and out to younger skirts
with better credit ratings.)

The children of bizarre gods giggle,
take her by the hand,
spin her through the door,
and together
they fall from sanctuary.


II. World of Crosses and Crescents

Surely those who disbelieve from among the followers of the Book and the polytheists shall be in the fire of hell, abiding therein; they are the worst of men.
--The Clear Evidence 98.6, The Koran

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
--Exodus 22:18, The Bible (King James Version)

To know a person's religion we need not listen to his profession of faith but must find his brand of intolerance.
--Eric Hoffer (1902-1983)

Outside the Lilith Shelter,
the unblinking eyes
of the Solitary Gods
have risen in solar glory
reddening flesh
and blinding the throngs
of the tattered
as they reach for faith
and the baubles
that accompany it.

She stays to the shadows
for the Kaaba facers
and the Crucifiers both
lay claim to the light.

The voice of God and Allah
are now explosions
and shrapnel are scriptures
penetrating flesh
probing for soul.

Allah speaks,
and she hits the ground
as crosses spit from
biblical revolvers
and crescents slide
from oil soaked scabbards.
Metallic angels with
mechanized wings
lurch heavenward
as calls to prayer
mix with rotor blades
to craft the melodies of bedlam.

The priests and the muttawas
rove the bright streets
with switch-crosses
and steel rods
forcing the female divine
into supplication
or at least to her knees
for sexual gratification
before they stone her
as a slut.

Dodging stones
she passes
through the city gates
far from Gethsemane
far from Mecca
into the twilight passage
that leads
to the Witch Crossing.


III. The Witch Crossing

The gods of the old religion become the devils of the new.
--old saying (usually quoted by adherents to the old religion)

The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.
--Pat Robertson, The World Almanac and Book of Facts, 1993

She journeys until
she no longer hears the voices
of the one-Gods.

Until the only voice she hears
is that of her own soul
crying for the losses
of generations of children plowed into the
earth by religious war machines
fueled by the blood of the faithful
and directed by political holy men
that confuse battlefields with gardens
planting dead flesh
to harvest crops of pain, loss, and suffering
in order to feed the hordes of the bereaved.

She journeys until she
collapses in sorrow
and her tears flow
into the cupped hands
of the children of bizarre gods.

She whispers she's sorry
as sympathetic hands,
lead her to the river,
cast her tears to the moon,
and vanish into the night.

Confused, she dips her hands
into the water and drinks.
She sees
her reflection mix
with the moon's
and suddenly
the lunar painted ripples
rouse and tremble.
Ancient eddies swirl with energy,
as watery moonbeams
revel in their awakening.

They evolve into orphan waves
and leave the refuge of river
to slip through air.

They are glistening moon glimmers
circling her head,
kissing her lips,
and quenching her thirst
for spirit.

They diffuse into her flesh
filling her with primeval dreams
and visions of the divine.
They entwine with her soul,
tug at her core,
and pull tissue from spirit.

Panicked,
she tries to hold herself together
until she is caught
in the ecstasy of the moment
and lets go.


IV. The Evolution of a Goddess

Physicists and Mystics have looked at the Universe and observed the same things, but the Mystics spoke in poetry, images and parable, and the Scientists spoke in numbers, equations and formulas.
--Abby Willowroot

You may drive out nature with a pitchfork,
Yet she will ever hurry back
over your foolish contempt.
--Epistles 1:10:24, Horace (65-8 BCE)

Cause you're the only song I want to hear,
a melody softly soaring through my atmosphere.
--Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

She falls with the rain
on to the backs of lovers,
drifts through trees
with summer winds
as the leaves tickle her soul,
and becomes the sand that sifts
through the fingers
of children of bizarre gods
as they play on the beaches of eternity.

Her naked soul
lay spent before the Cosmos
as she spreads
across the earth.

She forgets herself
and becomes a lullaby
on the breath of the Goddess
singing angry Gods to sleep
so that Her children
may once again walk in the sun.

Quick Note #1

This is just a quick note to let my friends know that I will be gone for a few weeks. (I know I have already been absent for a while. Please forgive me.) This especially goes out to Cargwaps, Blue Rogue, Mashiara, and Soulless... their words are medicine to my sick soul.

Disfigured Souls

Disfigured Souls

Disfigured souls
damaged in spiritual transit
are claimed by divine insurance
and shoved in a flesh box
to be sold as is.

Gods on a budget
buy us up without a warranty
(the expectation for failure
is overwhelming)
hoping to get their money's worth
before the inevitable breaking...

and when the 'pending shattered'
finally falter and burst,
we are scolded and beaten
before being cast down to earth
as human debris.

Here we live in a junkyard
of misfits and factory rejects
fumbling failures begging
a second chance from cheap gods
even as we revel in our own
inadequacies just to spite
our creator.

De-Generation

This picture is entitled De-Generation.

De-Generation

And the greatest minds of my generation
are masturbating to Lara Croft
--and she isn't even real. But
you got to have faith. At least
that's what the preacher says,
so, get the Vaseline and the KY Jelly.

"For the fool has said
in his (or her) heart there is no God."

So do I believe in God because of
prideful pricks of not wanting
to be a fool...

wait,

Croft is raiding another
Tomb. Puff on a smoke and pause...
look at those digitized inner thighs
hmmmmm, pixel perfection.

Toilet bowl wombs with water running
all night. The anti-depressants work,
at least they do at the prayer meetings
with Lord Calvert.

Conservative backlash...
"Damn Hippie! Long hair!"
Apologies were issued once they found out
it was actually Christ.

So why do we want to know?
Because of hell, that's why.

That's where the Coke machines
steal your money and there are scratches
on your CDs and McDonalds closes
at 5:00pm and they issue you a
cable bill twice a month.
Where obsolete serotonin seraphim sing
praises to Freud while lewdly
dancing around my brain stem
like nymphs around a maypole in
a fertility rite and to my dismay the only entry
in my little black book is a picture of my
right hand with a note that states
that my video game rental for
Tomb Raider is four years past due.

And after all this, what is real?
Cracked heels, irregularity, tampons, yeast infections,
and pre-paid phone cards to call
the 1-900 suicide hot line where
menu options offer blow jobs, church donations,
psychic readings, and psychiatric help.

And nobility is defined by the amount
of sexual harassment grievances, DUI
charges, and Microsoft stigmatas we wear.
(Pixels bleed from our fingertips
and are quickly gathered for DNA testing
to prove our lack of faith.)

Trippin' on espresso, we perceive reality
in frame by frame 3D rendering and wonder
why God hasn't upgraded our CPU.

And Heaven is further away than a max'd
out credit card and God is still safe from mortal's view
under the guise of trickle down economics and
earned income tax credits.

God sips margaritas with crucifix tropical drink toppers
and smiles until He inevitably
pierces His lip and all humor is lost --except for a slight
giggle echoing from Galapagos where
Darwin cleans the Vaseline from the Playstation,
and Freud licks his cigar.
But God's lip is still bleeding;
the droplets forming words plagued with conjecture
and multiple interpretations.

Between the lot, no one had a condom.

And is this how we got here?
Are we spinning in the porcelain
choking on cigar smoke and Vaseline residue
with Tomb Raider theme music playing in the
background?
Was Lara Croft the inspiration for our existence?
Did He have to hurry because the Pizza Man
was pounding on the door, already swearing
damnations because he tripped over a pair of roller blades
and slipped in the remains of the last beer run?

Generation Next falters from the game,
mumbles incoherently and says why am I
reading this? Lara's on the tube and there's
no one in the bathroom.

God's bleeding may have stopped, but
the stains remain. Scarlet Rorschach inkblots
in which we once guided our lives and in which we
gained our ideas of morality are now spectacles
for the Inquirer and Jerry Springer.


Author's Note: Inspiration from "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.

Lip Service (Cracked Sun Gods)

This picture is entitled Cracked Sun Gods.

Lip Service

Kiss tripping
on cheek and neck
as lips warm
passion's path
and wisps
of smoky flesh
wrap around bare thighs.

(Breathing on embers
make them glow.)

My tongue
catches you on fire
and too soon
turns you to ash.
Consumed, you crumble
and are gone.

Embracing ash,
soot powders
my body
and I wear you
as a sacrament.

(God never tasted so good.)

You mix with
tears and sweat
becoming blackened streaks
leading to thirsty eyes
that will never
drink you again.