The Conspiracy of Society

Society is a vast conspiracy to control and possess that which is sacred. The original sin of humankind, pride, places it’s throne above “God” claiming dominion over all the earth and it’s inhabitants. It eats of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil which is Law, and passes it’s fruits to our children and our children’s children, the fruits of judgement, condemnation, and guilt. It binds our minds and our hearts with precept upon precept. Society is a disease that feeds on what is alive and free and wild. It is the anti-thesis of life itself. It promises safety, security and comfort in return for painful toil but the wages of sin is death. The system of capitalism is a disease that perpetuates slavery, oppression, greed and violence, it is the anti-thesis of freedom, self-reliance and autonomy.

The Tyrant is a Slave

The spider is a slave to her web,The tyrant is a slave to his throne, the hand a slave to the stomach, they all end up dying alone…the fish is a slave to the ocean, the worm a slave to the soil, the farmer slaves in his garden with painful labor and toil. Love is the only redemption, the balance of darkness and light, death is the only forgiveness, the morning comes after the night.

Secret of Your Soul

When I look into your eyes so wild and free, mystical, angelic, I wonder what you see, come to me my angel share with me the secret of your soul. I want to know the secret, but I don’t want to break the seal, I’ll accept it as a gift but I won’t beg or steal, come to me my angel, share with me the secret of your soul.

Jenn

She’s got fire in her eyes and a monkey on her back, she’s walking thru the quarter looking for a sack, she say’s she’s leaving town and she ain’t never coming back, but I don’t think she’s going anywhere…Everywhere she goes everybody knows her name, she gets just what she wants she knows how to play the game, she says she’s tired of this town, everything’s the same, but I don’t think she’s going anywhere…she say’s working these streets is a tough row to hoe, even though she’s on paper she says she’s ready to go, she says she’s as free as a bird but I don’t know, I don’t think she’s going anywhere…we’re sitting at the moonwalk staring out at the river, she’s got a son on the west bank she knows he’ll forgive her, she said “I just gotta do me for awhile.” She looks me in the eye and she gives me a smile, and the wind ruffles her long brown hair, she says she’s wild and free and doesn’t have a care, but I don’t think she’s going anywhere

Fowl Society

They eat and fuck and clack and cluck and live inside their zones
They strut and fluff and act real tough, like dogs fighting over a bone
Like kittens and tits they fight for their bits like there’s not enough to share
And when it’s done you better run if the hand that feeds is bare
They’ll peck your fingers and your toes, that’s how the story always goes
Right or wrong, foul or fair the rooster always gets his share
Dependant on authority…lost their way, don’t know how to be free
So they’ll sharpen their beaks just to make you bleed
Cuz you’re the only one they see sitting on the throne.

Picture

“…and the word became flesh and dwelt among us.”-John chap.1
A painter can change a person’s life without uttering a single syllable. God, the master artist speaks to us each and every day. A man cannot fathom the infinite omnipresence of God until he stands on the shore and watches the sea pale in comparison. He cannot know the essence of humility until he lies beneath the stars and realizes how small and insignificant he is in the grand scheme of things. He will not know his creator until he bows down in humble adoration to that power that is bigger than himself and cries out “what is man that you are mindful of him?”
Nature is a fleeting shadow through the window of a man’s soul. Until he recognizes the form of whom that shadow belongs to and opens the door and allows him to illuminate the recesses of his soul he will forever be a stranger to his creator. A man is intimate with God when he can feel his caress in the breeze that ruffles his hair, and can see his face shine upon him as the sun rises above the horizon.
The most effective and impactful form of communication is not the use of words to express a thought or idea, but the use of words to paint a picture that illustrates that thought or idea. We that know the Truth have a responsibility to express it.

The god of Abel

Who is this “God” that demands the shedding of blood for the remission of sins? Creation was corrupted when plants, animals, and land became “crops”, “herds” and “property”. Abel was the first shepherd, the first one to break the will of wild sheep and possess and control them as his own as well as the land they grazed upon. Abel was the first man to shed innocent blood. The idea of “ownership” and “property” was the result of the domestication of plants and animals and is the cornerstone of civilization as we know it. Who is this “God” that looked in favor upon Abel’s’ sacrifice of bloodshed and rejected Cain’s sacrifice of the fruits of the earth?
Abel’s sacrifice was the first of many. The barbaric custom evolved into an annual massacre of the first born of the flock from every household of “God’s” “chosen people”, a requirement for the “remission of sins.” (If the household was not involved in the enterprise of domesticated sheep they could buy one at the temple; for a modest fee I’m sure.) As the lambs throat was slit and the blood drained into a basin and carried thru the temple and into the most holy of holy places behind a curtain that only the high priest could enter and not without a rope tied to his foot in case the “Lord” decided to smite him to death and poured the blood over the horns of the alter, the meat was cooked over an open fire and the priesthood indulged in the choice cuts of the meat according to their rank in the hierarchy and the wrath of the “Lord” was dissuaded because he was pleased with the aroma of the (barbeque) offering.
The domestication of sheep and man went hand in hand as the chosen people were branded and corralled according to their specific tribes to raise their flocks on their allotted territories and defend their folds against predators while eradicating “Gentiles” and nomadic-hunter-gatherer peoples that inhabited their “Promised Land.” the “Lord” had given them the land and as for the natives, he commanded that the Israelites kill them all (even women and children) and steal all of their stuff. (sound familiar?) If anyone had the testicular fortitude to speak out against the ways of the “Lord” he was commanded by the “Lord” to be stoned to death immediately by the closest person available for his blasphemy.
I don’t believe that “God” has a chosen people and I don’t think that the presence of the lord was ever concentrated enough to fit into a box or a temple for that matter. I have issues with the hierarchical priesthood concept and refuse to believe that “God” prescribed the slaughter of animals for the remission of sins, or the genocide of nomadic Muslim tribes such as the Amorites, Moabites, ect. I don’t think anyone had more issues against the religion of the Jews than Jesus Christ himself who gave his life as a ransom to set his people free from a usurious and oppressive religion.
The Jews were the first to unite commerce and religion, the business of sacrificing sheep was the cornerstone of the economy in the middle east where there wasn’t much else going on because they hadn’t discovered oil yet, so the machine ran on blood instead.
In the Jewish culture everything was commoditized from salvation to marriage, it was customary to pay the father of the bride so many head of livestock for the privilege of marrying his daughter. Girls started getting married when they were as young as 13 years old when they were considered a woman and often had very little say in who they married. (If that’s not child prostitution I don’t know what is.) The temple tithe required 10 percent of gross income, a practice that is still used by the Christians. The religion of capitalism started by the Jews still survives and has been preserved and embraced by the Christian church.
I respect Jesus and his teachings but I have come to the conclusion that the god of the Old Testament is something that was made up by a power hungry tyrant bent on controlling and possessing the world. ...the war that's going on now, another chapter of the crusades, is just a part of the script outlined in the bible...it is written, and we're acting it out like puppets with Bush and the rest of the infamadi (Zionistic fascists) pulling the strings. The earth is sacred, it is something that is not to be controlled and possessed, divided and fought over, you can't posses something that is sacred...The Man, in his sinful pride, has placed his throne above the Creator and commanded that we serve in his kingdom and bow down and worship him. If we keep feeding this satanic system with our labor, commerce, tithes and taxes and brainwashing our children to follow this "Holy" script it's gonna be a bad movie.
Generally speaking, one’s political views usually mirror their perception of God. I don’t see God as a hierarchical Deity who must be praised and obeyed to incur blessings and dissuade wrath…I believe that god is Love. Love does not lord above its beloved but exists in the midst and is one with all that is. The idea of a personified deity existing outside of his creation, an old white man with a long gray beard, sitting on a throne somewhere on a cloud in another realm, ruling over the nations with an iron scepter, is absurd to me and I don’t think “Thor” the Greek god of thunder is what Jesus was envisioning when we made references to his heavenly father.

Renunciation

A renunciation of codependent ties to religion, sex, drugs…an attempt to transcend the demonic possession of my ego and the collective ego of society…witches, bitches, ideas and identity…I’ve burned them all at the stake…forsaking the prison, the hell of my own self-imposed consciousness and the imposed morality of the masses…seeking only the light of creation and righteousness and Truth which burns eternally beyond the dancing flames of destruction, the annialation of all that is false and illusatory…binding my only begotten to the dead driftwood timbers of matter, space and time…ascending into the medulla of all that is and all that was and will be…the Alpha the Omega, the beginning and the end…Born again into the realm of consciousness…the awareness of unity with all that is… renouncing the false doctrine of separation, severing attachment to the body and mind…ascending into the purity of the Spirit…presenting myself a living sacrifice…dying to the luciferian concept of self…being born again a new creation…a parcel of the divine…taking on the essence of the whole.

Entering the Temple

She breathes life into my dusty bones clothed with cold flesh, once again I breathe. Awakened as from a dream I am reminded of who I am. Looking into her eyes she gives me power and permission to tap into a part of myself that I never knew existed. I feel. She is that missing piece; she fills the void that nothing else could fill. She completes me. Separation from her would be a chilly death. So I fight. Every obstacle that stands between us I demolish, she is the Holy Grail, she is salvation. I fight for her and surrender into her, I pledge my love to her and dedicate my life to her. In an act of celebration and consummation we become one flesh as I plunge into her with self-less abandon, dying to myself and being born again. Our bodies entwined together I enter reverently into her temple with all of my being parting the curtain of the holiest of holy places offering myself in covenant with her. with passionate intensity I lose myself in her dying and being born again as I spill my sacrifice on her alter uniting our bodies and souls with one final exertion and a peace pervades the silent night.

Sauna Detox

I sit in silence except for the steady drip of sweat cascading down my bowed head gathering speed as it rolls down the slope of my nose and for a brief moment of suspense, clinging to the end of my nose for dear life before it plummets into the shallow puddle at my feet. As I nod to the rhythm of the suicidal lemurs of perspiration, the steady 4/4 time increases tempo and switches to duple meter as the puddle gets deeper and expands, slowly oozing down the slight grade of the tile floor, flowing towards the grated drain, a trapdoor of escape from its dehydrating host. A thick slime covers my body and the putrid stench of heroin residue seeping out of my pores turns my stomach as I painfully relive coming down. The sweat stings my eyes and the river branches off into tributaries as the beat is interrupted by rouge droplets swan diving from my forehead.

Jimmy Weinmiller

He was the richest man in town (not to mention the most hated) in fact he owned over half of it. His dad was a big shot from Arkansas, one of Bill Clinton’s main moneymen, owned a big horse ranch, lots of land, and a huge mansion on a hill among other things. His business was drugs. Lots of drugs. Jimmy used to work for his old man’s cartel up until he did some time for getting caught with a semi-truck full of reefer coming across the border in El Paso. He spent five years in one of them fancy country club prisons till cousin Bill gave him a full pardon on his way out of the white house.
Everybody in the small town of Monterey L.A. knew his name. Jimmy Weinmiller. Nobody liked him much either. He rubbed people the wrong way. He rubbed people out of their land and caused all kinds of ruckus just because he could.
HE built his house, a massive two story mansion, right down the road on the bank of Black River Lake, a prized piece of land called Billy goat point with access to the hottest bass fishing spot around. It was called Billy goat point on account of a farmer who kept his goats there once upon a time, until they were eaten by alligators.
The son of a preacher, I lived in the parsonage beside the Eva Church of God, a little white country church surrounded by Pecan trees with a cemetery lined with ornamental pear trees. In all four directions of the two and a half acre lot was farmland. The acreage to the West was Wienmiller’s prized property. In the back forty was a slough that would flood in the winter months and become a winter bungalow for thousands of Mallards as well as wood ducks and about a dozen other species of duck. Oftentimes around dusk I would sneak back there with my twelve gauge and jump a few of them.
His mansion on Billy Goat point also served as a hunting lodge for novice duck hunters such as the likes of Bobby Hebert, Bill Clinton, and other athletes and celebrities. It was sometimes more of a party house than a hunting lodge; the noise would sometimes keep me awake at night. I would get up cursing under my breath as I shut the window otherwise left open to hear the chirping of the crickets, the mocking bird’s song, and the yapping of coyotes hunting along the southeastern tree line.
Unpopular though he was, I didn’t have anything against the man. Often times while I was out cutting the grass he would come tearing down the turning row in his four-wheel drive truck. I would lift my hand for the customary wave because that’s what you do in the country, you wave, at everybody. My wave would never be returned. The first few times I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “He didn’t see me.” I’d say to myself, or “He thought I was swatting a fly or reaching for the gearshift, stretching my fingers or something.” Then, after a few more times I was offended. Where I come from a non-wave is a sign of disrespect. Who does he think he is anyways?
He had a lot of farming equipment he would park wherever he pleased; whether it was on the church property or not. I would often have to go around it to mow and leave a big patch of tall grass and weeds. One time in particular he was picking up a tractor he had parked right where I was mowing, He came walking across the yard paying me no mind whatsoever, talking over the grind of the mower to the hand that had dropped him off. He stood along with the other guy, right in the path of where I was mowing. I held my ground as I came toward them, and blew grass cuttings all over them. I kept my gaze on Weinmiller as he looked down at his boots that I had just sprayed grass clipping all over. I watched him as he turned his shocked dumbfounded gaze from his boots to my unrelenting gaze as if noticing my existence for the first time, his surprise faded into an amused grin.
Time went by and his dog started coming around the house, getting into the trash, eating all of my dog’s (Sandy and Buck’s) food, and stirring up trouble with them. I run him off several times, threw rocks, shot at his paws with a twenty-two rifle, I even took him down to Paul’s Grocery once but momma made me go back and get it. So I caught the little bastard and loaded him up in the Nova and went a knocking on that big cypress door. When he came out I handed him the little terrier and said, “You gotta do something with this dog.” I explained the problems I was having with it and he offered to let me have it the second or third time I had to bring it up there. I turned it loose somewhere in Jonesville.
Harvest time came and he came by the house, I was out in the yard, he introduced me to his brother and offered me a job. It paid seven dollars an hour and provided lunch. I had spam and peanut butter sandwiches every day for the next three months. We worked from sun-up to sundown every day, and sometimes even after sundown we would work with floodlights. I had done some work for him before through his right hand man, Travis, loading hay and painting the backup lodge.
HE tried to jip me out of a lot of money. He was slow at paying anyway. Then one night on their way to take me home he said, “How does one-hundred dollars sound to you?” I wasn’t overly smart when it came to figuring but I wasn’t stupid either. I had gone near bout three weeks without pay and a hundred dollars sounded like a load of horseshit to me and I told him so. I told him by my figures he owed me about $700 dollars. He made up some lame excuse about taxes or what not but I knew he was paying under the table, so I held my ground and told him that I had agreed to work for seven dollars an hour and seven dollars an hour is what I was going to get. He counted out the money in hundreds and twenty’s cash in hand.
When I got back to the house I looked at my time card and got out my calculator and realized that I had over charged him by over two hundred dollars. So back I went to knocking on that big cypress door. Giving that money back blew him and his brother away. They had never seen anything like that. I walked home that night feeling awful good; I had refused the chance to cheat the cheater, though I could have with ease.

Kindergarden Bully

It was 1989 and I was having a rough time. Every day at recess I was chased down and beaten up by a bully named Duran Mclin and his gang of goons, and we had recess twice a day. I remember despondently complaining about my daily beatings to my parents over dinner and my dad looked at me and said “Son, next time he comes up to you, you tell him that your dad said to punch you in the nose.” And he held his fist up in front of his face and shook it. A wave of courage and delight swept over me. I couldn’t wait to go to school the next day. I had a brand new attitude. I had been given permission.
Sure enough, at first recess, I was surrounded by his goons. I didn’t run this time but stood my ground with fists clenched at my sides as Duran Mclin sauntered his way thru his gang and walked up to face me. I punched him in the nose as hard as I could. He limped away with blood running down his face, holding his nose, with a henchman on each side and the rest of the gang bringing up the rear as the procession made their way to the teachers to tattle-tale. I felt like a million bucks standing on the punish wall.

The Harlot's Supper: Burnt Bread and Bitter Wine

Introduction
The book of Hosea is a story about a struggle, a battle of wills. It graphically illustrates the war between love and lust, truth and lies, and redemption and judgment. It is a story about a husband and wife, a God and a country, sex and politics, love and money, wine and bread. It is poetry; emotional, gripping and raw. This is a theological essay on chapter seven of the book of Hosea. It seems strange to begin a chain of thoughts in the middle of a story instead of staring at the beginning, but this tale does not spin in a rigid, sequential fashion. It is a collection of poems that act as spokes in a wheel, the hub of which is the truth that the metaphor represents.
My purpose in writing this paper is not to dissect the narrative and theorize about historical details and trivial facts, or to overanalyze every metaphor, raping it of its powerful imagery, nor is it to merely recapitulate the story that has already been authored. My purpose is to paint a picture. My pen is a brush and my words are paint. It is up to you, the reader, to allow the ink inscribed in parallel lines to come alive and illustrate themselves onto the canvas of your imagination with vivid colors and strokes, creating a masterpiece worth a thousand of my feeble phrases, my awkward attempt to delineate the truth that has been revealed to me.
As I write, I sit before a mirror so that I may examine my subject closely. For this is, in fact, a self portrait. I pray for humility, that my brush strokes will be honest and not attempt to cover up my many blemishes and flaws. I also pray that you, the reader, will see your reflection clearly in this painting, for it is not only a self-portrayal but an illustration of humanity. We are all the unfaithful bride; whore’s saved by grace.

The harlot’s supper: Burnt Bread and Bitter Wine

She didn’t think anyone could see her when she fornicated on her bed, but he was there. As her body was being pillaged, a thief crept into her temple, under cover of the night and carved out her heart leaving behind an empty catacomb of nothingness, a shadow with no substance, an empty house with snakes wilting on the steps.
Those beautiful stained glass windows to her soul, once illuminated with love and truth are now vacant and cold. Her eyes aren’t as bright as they used to be, as they were in the days of her youth. Her innocence is gone. She has been defiled. She allowed a stranger to desecrate her temple. She lay with him in exchange for his bread and his wine. He entered into her, parted the curtain that separated the holy place from the most holy of holies and spilled his seed of deception on her alter, impregnating her with his lies causing her to birth illegitimate children. She is a whore.
Her husband is devastated. In his anger he stripped off her filthy rags of righteousness. She lied there naked on the marriage bed, her shame revealed, her sin as exposed as her bare breasts. He knew she had been with someone else. He was filled with anger and jealousy; he could feel the blood in his veins run hot. How could she? How could she do this after all he had been through for her? He longed to restore her to himself and to rescue her from her captivity, but her sin he could not ignore. It was right in front of his face, but he could not bear to turn his back on her. He would not.
She had sold herself back to the abusive master he had bought her from. The price had been paid in full, she was free, she didn’t have to wear that red dress anymore but still she turned away from him and subjected herself once again to the life of a prostitute, calling to her lovers as a dim-witted dove calls for a mate, soliciting cheap tricks on every corner, beneath every street light; sleeping in a den of thieves when what she really longed for was a home.
How could she forget him? How could she rip out his heart and cast aside the gifts he had lavished upon her? The covenant she had broken; the sacred document, their certificate of marriage, signed in blood, she had not remembered. The fiery coals of her passion had smoldered in her heart all night, and like kneaded dough that rises without having to be stirred, blazing into a fire at dawn and consumed her king.
He cried out in his anger, his face flushed with rage, he turned over the table, spilling her wages of harlotry on the floor and raised his hand to strike her…but he couldn’t. How could he? As he looked down at her, shivering and helpless, naked, wounded and broken, his heart was changed within him; all of his compassion was aroused and he remembered.
Every night he dreams of days gone by when she rested comfortably in his arms. She dwelt with him in his house, walking beside still waters and lying down in the greenest of pastures. He remembered her beautiful eyes gazing up into his, bright with love and devotion, fully trusting. He was desperate for her to respond that way to him again, the way she did in her youth. He missed her so much, he ached to hear once more, the song she used to sing to him, the one that made him cry. He wanted so badly to restore her to her home, to wrap her in his loving arms, to feel the warmth of her tears of joy when they shared their most intimate and passionate moments together. Every fiber of his being screamed out her name.
The candles were lit, a feast was prepared, but the place he had set at his table for her was empty. He longed to hear her knock on the door. He ached for her return. If only she would come to him. If only she would call out to him, he would restore her and bind up her wounds.
He pleads with her, his heart torn in two. The woman he adores has betrayed him. He pursues her, he fights for her, he woos her, but she does not respond. He whispered to her but she didn’t hear. He spoke to her but she ignored him. He shouted from the roof-tops, but she was oblivious. He sent her letters that remained unread and messengers unheeded and finally he was beaten, whipped and nailed to a tree on a hill for her to see, but she was blind.
Though she slay him, he paid the price for her, a ransom to set her free. He gave everything he had. Her insults were thorns in his brow. Her lies were nails in his hands. Her adultery a spear in his side. But, still he loved her and offered himself to her; bread of life, broken for her iniquity; new wine, poured from his veins that were pierced for her transgressions. But she did not accept his sacrifice. She turned away from him and called upon her lovers-her captors. In her hunger she wailed on her bed and slashed her wrists to receive a harlot’s supper: burnt bread and bitter wine.