Thoughts of a God that crucified His own Son.

I was inspired to pull out an older piece I had written awhile back when I was in a strange place. Maybe I was channeling e. e cummings. Maybe I was losing God. Maybe I was coming off drugs. It was awhile ago


Thoughtfully inspired bliss

                                  amiss

Christmas spreading muddy joy               (Psst, do you hear the
                                                                   angels sing?)

I saw His son's face
          bleeding on a button
                          somewhere.

Did he really just forget?

A man loves to send his son away
to die.
Does he forget?

I have his son's name written somewhere.

Check my spoon.
(Could you eat without a spoon or would you die like His son?)                                                       
                                            (Psst. Look at him squirm...Why are those damn  angels singing?)                     

                                                                     I am repulsed by their joy.


A sponge reminds us, reminds me of the pain,
in vain,
for dopes
who molt STUPIDITY.

Like a thousand birds,
strung out,

spaced on a wire.                                   
                                                         (Pssst, I have been spaced on a wire)

Shitting on the statue of fleshy cold marble,
"The Boy who Died in Vain."

Maybe not in vain.
        Maybe in Detroit. 
                    (A city dreams do not even venture to go.)