Tidal waves, roll-tide!
Blasphemous revelations, Blasphemous priests!
Judgment of the judged and judgers,
by chance and simple, sterile
feet cloven in misdemeanor sins.
Fast talking, the heightened Jabberwocky!
Ramble on, Michael, Michael,
thy sword swiftly falls, crackling the gate,
and she, bella figura, stricken with catalepsy,
rendered mute by the closing of paradise.
And towering above, clothed and vehement, loud and unwavering, plastic man
adorned with golden flames, golden jewels, littered with emeralds and rubies,
may he be your guide towards the promised land!
For shame! Never!
Little children dancing naked through the wilderness of the id,
and no cop shall catch the robber of their innocence.
But innocence fades, and is without definition,
bordering heresy, but toeing the line of pleasure.
Never feel, only give—sacrifice, Amen, Amen!
Never a drop of rain upon the scorched Earth, and all
is forgotten and gone.
Where did it end?
The intersection of familial and enemy,
friends and lovers, sons and daughters,
bloodied and bruised in the name of the father/son/holy ghost. Whatever.
For the trinity is divided by one, yet two for our virgin—the mother,
that dirty little prudish minx, what a tease!
Failure, absentee father, no rent is due but child needs food.
Struggling with divinity, at ease.
Relax but do not sleep, recline but do not lay.
One cannot touch what he cannot see, but he must believe.
I will build, and build,
with osmium as my material,
step by agonizing step into the clouded sky!
I will meet that which cannot be met, leaving the world behind.
And what do I leave? A christian black hole, scientifically devoid of science and reason,
artificially sweetened, artificially intelligent, digital church, at war with the older times,
the future uncertain, balancing on the name of the father.
Tipping back and tipping forth,
what is his name? What is his name?
Accept our savior, or die.
Compassionate little Goddies, goodie two-shoes, the left bigger than the right,
but the right wronger than the wrong.
Perhaps the other? Soon-e mysticism, translucent solids, future backward past forward,
hero gallops in the sky towards the Heavens. Collides with blue sky birds
in coven over forgotten fields, and then, crash lands upon a runway made of
hope, and despondency.
And where is our savior? Divine divinity, misrepresented transactions, broken account ledger, transaction fee—soul. Soulless?
Myriad diamonds dot the crescent hat as children wallow in gloom,
do you hear me mighty YHWH? I cry and yell with only echo as response.
Wavering waivers, philandering philanthropists, gallivanting prudes.
Opposites attract—see magnetism, and hearken to me, lo!
With a great chop of edged hand the world splits in two
and out forth comes only steam,
no guts, no glory.
But I continue to build, escaping the rapture.
Stair upon stair until the clouds are behind me.
Hours pass like minutes, and decades pass like hours.
Time strains and reflexes to survive the bending of reality, and all
rationality absolves itself above the righteous storm below.
God? What of him?
I have yet to pass his house or hall and have yet to hear his thundering holler.
He is but a figment, up here and everywhere.
His name was yelled aloud in many
a language down beneath,
but only a kaboom responded.
And now, only the sulfuric smell
of a human hell, of a scorched field remains,
and the birds seek refuge higher and higher up
away from the smog of the past civilizations.
The buildings of man stand like fossilized skeletons amid a roaring
and unwavering wind. Thousands of years of construction,
purified to rubble in a mere instant—thy will be done.
My legs grow tired but I do not stop.
I climb and climb, building and building,
moving as if the whips of masters were behind me.
Snap crackle and pop. And behold, the bellowing of a million miles down!
I had reached the stars, past became present, and future became now,
tomorrow ceased to be a day but a generation. Centuries had passed.
My hands had yet to age, and the stars were now my neighbors.
Here in the cosmos, I lay survey upon the ball below,
once blue, now shrouded under the mass of an impenetrable shadow.
The ocean was blackened, and the orange of magma tidal rocked
once pristine shores.
Oh man! What folly,
having thus destroyed each other they set upon the Earth.
Who had been the victor?
None, not even the bystanders could stand aside.
All been swept up in the machine of war—turning and turning
with mechanical efficiency.
Using science to fight for God, how ironic.