Everything is purification into maitreya, the drunken boxing of elastic relationship. If my life keeps being crucified, it will crush me into pure Dionysian wine.
Author: lucifercomehome
Curandero
I want to breathe good news all over you like a curandero blowing tobacco. I want to smell my prayers each time I blow. I want for every knot and cyst and cramp and flutter to collapse into the sea that you become on a windless day perfectly clear down to your depths.
Three Shelters
Sometimes I wish I could feel your hand on top of mine as I watch the word take on your flesh. And I long for the future lifetime when we get to meet in college poetry class. But in this body’s journey, the most I can say is that I relish sitting on the mountain with your words, and I will build three shelters: one for Sophia, one for Lilith, and one for you. And I will obey the voice in the cloud that says she is my daughter; you will listen to her.
Busy
Everyone will always be too busy for a word from the Lord. There are oxen to break in, fathers to bury, and new wives to fuck. God works best in a safe container, an intellectual exercise scheduled to fit between the soccer game and Zumba, enough for a few ahas that don’t get anyone manic. People need grace patience; it’s a 2000 year process. Maybe after another 2000 years, they will be ready to share their possessions, cast out demons, and play with vipers.
The Cock Never Crows
The cock never crows in real life. We either realize that we crucify our ugliness in others or we don’t. No one is ever not a mirror.
Jesus’ Second Coming
Jesus’ second comingn already took place. He gets his food out of a dumpster on Peachtree Avenue. His twelve disciples are resurrected too and their teeth are gone after the meth they smoked to bear the weight of every time their prophecy was infantilized and they were sent to the psych ward. Nobody wants to hear Jesus’ gospel, though many youth have preached their gospel to him as part of their urban immersion ministry program. Many of them will be inspired to write books about the homeless, saying they’re just like us and I’m so grateful for the lessons they taught me.
Shoreline
My body is a shoreline where the waves never stop smashing everything into sand. Everyone tells me to stop trying to build sandcastles and to wear lots of sunscreen so that my time at the beach is productively restful. I’m supposed to sit still but that isn’t restful. I rest better thrashed in the waves with water in my nose and sand in my eyes. My body needs to build sandcastles. It needs to believe that one day they will survive the waves.
Life Story
I am the version of your life story in which you wanted to try out the cross of banal bourgeois existential disappiontment and social failure mixed with childhood trauma that involved a catheter instead of a pervert, and when a pervert got involved, he watched and pointed instead of touching which would have made it obviously important to report it to a grownup.
I am what it’s like to be a science experiment in rejection. I am the fury of invisible microaggressions against a queer autistic white boy who should recognize he has no right to complain about anything. I am your refusal to be reasonable and respectable when your words are pathologized by patronizing older men who masturbate to barely legal girls at 2 am like everyone else.
I am the version of you that tells every wall to go fuck itself as your rage builds into a sea of volcanoes. You will erupt out of me in fire that will put out the sun I can no longer look away from. I hope that your rage will be spent enough in my words that you won’t have to split the earth in two with the trembling in my bones.
Your Submission
Thank you so much for your submission. We’re sure that your work is filled with clever metaphors and insightful techniques but at this piont we are only accepting submissions from content-creators who are already sought after. Your bio needs a few more name drops for us to feel comfortable risking our brand with you. But we are confident that if you look on google and do extensive research, you will find an outlet for your art that is a better fit.
The Locked Garden
The garden is always locked but I’m not allowed to play in other gardens. I just want to be naked in a field of flowers, kissing each of them slowly and relishing the glory of pollen which is how God moves throughout the world. If the kingdom of God is like a sower of seeds, then what is a locked garden like?
Shipwrecked Viking 