Willful Belligerent Unknowing

    Outside the building’s stone black walls, the crowd had assembled. Not yet a mob. Not yet. A mob has a purpose. These were only waiting for instructions to strike. The austere apartments towered above them. I could push through the crowd. Retreat to soulless safety. Turn back. Turn back. Turn back again.

    “Listen up, you liberal twat. No American Christian has ever embraced socialism as a guiding principle. It has no place in this country. No value.”

    “But it was a socialist who wrote the Pledge of Allegiance,” I remind them. I was having my lunch, eating an apple on bus bench. “A Baptist minister, Francis…”

    “I don’t know where you studied history, sir, but I suggest you take another course from a different source. You couldn’t be further from the truth.

    The agitations of the crowd surged and rolled. They surrounded me on the bench. Knocked the half-eaten apple from my hand.

    “The United States of America is the protector and defender of freedom and democracy.”

    “But the US of A has a history of toppling democratically elected governments around the world.”

    “Liar!

    “Costa Rica, Syria, Guatemala Iran. Chile… I could go on.”

    “No! You’re not going to convince us to jeopardize our freedom and security with your leftist lies.”

    We don’t see. So we don’t know. Won’t see. It’s not ignorance but a willful, belligerent unknowing. Open eyes and shuttered minds. The lights shining in darkened corners have been snuffed. My people are destroyed for a lack of knowledge.

Hosea 4:6

Oh, You Can't Get to Heaven

 

    I got a chance to be the bad uncle at church this morning - sharing a silly song with the kids. Start the video at the 14:30 mark.

 

Golden Godliness

    Hog butcher, gold digger, the United States is the greatest country in the world. Say it again. Say it more. Robber baron, arms dealer, the United States is the greatest nation in the history of nations. A model of hard work humility, and honest golden worship. Decent men and proud women living lives of good fortune. The envy of the world.

    Look to the unrivaled military straddling the world, land and sea and air and space. Our marching millions. Look to the unparalleled wealth accumulated in cities of glass and steel. Global power, high above all nations of the earth just as God promised in those pivotal Old Testament prophecies.

    But, and hear this, only two in ten will affirm it. Only two in ten will say Amen. Two in ten who understand that America stands a golden head above the other nations. All others are America hating blasphemers who do not understand that gain is godliness. And that we will take it all.

1 Timothy 6:5

Cain and the Capitalist Cult

    The curdled sky unplaceable through the smoke of burning cities
    day and night disfigured, bulldozed earth in a heap of spoil
    Cain stands screaming in the field of blood,
    “Am I my brother’s keeper?” 
    Patron saint of the Capitalist Cult.

No Man Is an Island, or The Implications of Store-Bought Milk

    “Let it go down in history as a scattering of ash: Rugged Individualism is a myth.” The walls shifted. The ceiling pulled back. Wooden furniture splintered on the floor. The words were my own. I spoke them gently; it was my friend who burst in to bring down the roof.

    “I wouldn’t expect anything else from someone like you.”

    “Someone like me?” I asked.

    “Commies like you who admire socialists.” Paintings fell from their frames. The windows fell open. The front door fell off its hinges.

    “Ah…” I said. “I think maybe you’ve got that backwards, but it’s still true. We are stronger together.”

    “People just need to take accountability for their station. Grow your own food and you’ll never have to worry about another government recall. I grow my own. Why don’t you?” My shelves shuddered to the floor, spilling books into a heap.

    “There’s no pure independence. We are, each one of us, interdependent. We rely on each other.”

    “I raise chickens and trade eggs for pork. We have a cow and we tried pasteurizing our own milk, but we’ve mostly returned to store-bought milk. Our water comes from a well. I make diesel from used oil and fryer grease. I won’t be a slave to other producers or to the government.”

    “Hold up a beat,” I interrupted. “You buy milk?”

    “Well, we had trouble controlling the pasteurizing temperatures. The point is, either control your own resources to meet your needs or you depend on others. Choose your path. Choose wisely.”

    The whole house lurched on its cracked foundation.

    “Okay. Okay. Slow down there, Garfunkle. No man is an island. I said it before and I’ll say it again. Rugged Individualism is a myth. We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.”

    My friend scoffed a laugh and looked around. “This place is falling apart. You should do something about that. Take accountability for your place.” I sighed and picked up my copy of Donne’s devotions from the floor as he made his exit.

Are You Afraid, Carter?

    Look at me here – a half century, plus a bit more, a half century of living among the subterraneans at the edge of the naked city where it smells of marijuana, the neighbors play their music too loud and their dogs bark all night. These mechanics, hairdressers, and taxi drivers. These field-hands, deli-shop owners, and veterinary assistants.

    And look at the news: another protracted war in Europe with sprawling death count. Look at the news: another endless, pointless war in the Middle East.

    “Knock it off, Carter. You lost your idealism years ago.”

    Hear it? That is, despite the sneering belligerence, the voice of trembling fear and no peace. No peace.

    Look at me here, a half century of September reminders – falling leaves and fading memories – a half century of resignations, recriminations, failures, and false starts. I don’t want to live in the past, but I don’t understand the present and I cannot see the future. How do I disrupt the disorder? How do I deescalate the situation without matching their rhetoric? Without meeting violence with violence?

    “Work out your own salvation,” the voice says, “with fear and trembling. Are you afraid, Carter? Are you afraid? You know you should be.”

    It’s true. I am.

    “And why do you fear?”

    Because the secret things belong to God and who can understand his own errors?

Philippians 2:12

An End Times Growth Fund Prospectus

    Dear Investor,

    These are just the ordinary times at the end of an age, the collapse of civilization and expanding operations. This is not the time to panic. We are going places, buying things, building nations. Exciting things are in the works. Imports. Exports. World markets without end.

    The mainstream media is filling your head with randomized reports of tragedy. War, rumors of war, and daily woe. Ignore them. The enemies of democracy want you to be afraid. Ignore them – even if they are friends and family. The movement from war to peace – and the reverse – is your opportunity. It is the movement from poverty to prosperity. It is time to invest.

    All investments involve risk. That’s the nature of the game. Past performance cannot predict future results. Unstable. Volatile. Shaking in divers places. No one knows the big picture reality. And besides, you don’t really care about biblical prophecy. As long as the taxes stay low and the profits stay high. This is why you’ve hired us. Our forward-looking statements are based on current end-of-age indicators, and our proprietary Tribulation Volatility Index gives us great hope for the future.

    The Apostle Paul told us of our financial future. He said, “Know this, that in the last days perilous times will come. Dollar by dollar of frantic finance. Love yourself. Love your money. And never miss a payment.”

    Don’t despair for drought and famine. We’re buying up debt in these emerging markets. Lack of rain, lack of food. Yes. It is here. But don’t worry yourself about it. Macro-instability such as this presents unique opportunities for agile investors. Keep going to church just as you do. It looks good and everything’s fine.

    Remember: the good guys don’t get caught. That’s how you know they’re the good guys.

    *Jannes and Jambres Capital Management is not a financial advisor, and the information contained here does not constitute financial advice. Market conditions may deteriorate due to war, disease, or sovereign dissolution. The End Time Growth Fund is not insured against wrath, judgment, or systemic failure.

    2 Timothy 3:1-5

The Crisis

    The oak that I’d always wanted removed – the dead one in the front yard – fell through the house during the night. The night of the winds. Straight line winds, a hundred miles an hour. The night of the horror. Shattered windows without a glow. Someone’s minivan lurched over the curb like a vomiting hangover.

    The moon crashed over an empty highway. The night lay long through the dark and we were dying in shifts.

    We hid through the crisis of that night and the days and weeks that followed in the closest church lockdown. We barricaded the door with a broken pew. A solace without comfort. A comfort without consolation. Flaming billboards and parking lots of ash. Offices sacked in the escalation of destruction. My children sat on the floor with me, sleeping with their little heads on my lap.

    We heard women crying in the bathroom and men screaming in the alley. Two thousand years of longed-for apocalypse boiled down to a wordless howl. Crowds of the staggering sick were turned out of the hospital. The daily dead with meaningless eyes like blackened stones.

    Meanwhile, the great men in their great coats and black cars - the optimates - were buying and selling the antheap. Poisoning the river. Irradiating the soil. Cutting our throats and gloating as a parade squad of soldiers in jackboots marches across the square.

    None of the pleasant words. None of the challenging speeches. None of the proclamations and declarations mattered. Sermons from the void. None of them could stop anything. None of them meant anything anymore. Stupid fools wanted the world to end. They paid for its collapse.

    Fine. Goddammit. Burn the whole thing. Let their wickedness come down. Let ‘em have what they’ve always wanted. Let ‘em choke on it. I know I have. And I’m sick of it all.

Lamentations 1:22

Elsewhere Beyond this Darkness

    The scene: a moonless night of indeterminate length. Crickets in the lingering heat. The faintest rustle of the wind in long grass. Two men, rough from the road, smoking.

    “The light shines elsewhere, yeah?”

    “I guess. What?”

    “Light. Somewhere beyond this hill, this… beyond this darkness.”

    “What are you going on about?”

    “Every day it’s this. We stagger, arms outstretched with fingertips extended. Reaching…”

    A long silence. Long drags on the cigarettes.

    “Reaching for what?”

    “We’re all always reaching toward a glimmer of…”

    “What are you going on about?”

    “Light. The light! It flickers and goes out with the crash of thunder. And we wonder how long it will be before it returns. It shimmers there at the horizon, but we can never reach it. We dream about it all night long.”

    “Not me. I never dream. I lay down. I close my eyes. I wake up with nothing in between.”

    “But there are lights there too. Behind our eyes…”

    “Phosgenes…”

    “No. I’m sure that’s not it.”

    “You sure?”

    The still of the night lingers on. Heavy between them. The breeze, what there was of it, has gone on without them.

    “How long have we been at this?”

    “We’ve been walking for… Hang on, I can count it up.”

    He pulls at his fingers for some time.

    “No. It’s gone.”

    They smoke the last drags of their cigarettes. Even that little glow is gone. They flick the butts away.

    “The light still shines somewhere. It must.”

    “It must. It must? Why? I don’t understand. The light... The light? I sleep fine without it. In fact, that’s what I aim to do just now. I’m going to close my eyes and…”

    “A little sleep. A little slumber. And then?”

    “Leave me alone. What else is there?”

    “Light! There is light!”

    “Light? Are you still on about that? Go to sleep.”

    The two of them are quiet for a long moment. The crickets stop their song but there is snoring to fill the silence.

    “The light still shines. Somewhere. Maybe not here, but somewhere. And I will know it.”

John 1:5

The End of a Thing

    The end of a thing...

    And there will be signs in the sun and sighs for the moon, distress on the earth – the resulting perplexity of games without rules and actions without consequences.

    Ignore the real time warnings – real time end time nations of our day.

    An end? An end? There will be no end of the great American Empire. Canada, Greenland, Mexico, Venezuela? They all belong to us. The moon itself belongs to us; we control the tides. We will annex the horizon if it pleases us to do so, no matter the roaring of the sea.

    Burnt down and broken. Raped and pillaged to turn a dollar into a dollar and a half.

    This is the day, the most important day. The last day. Filled with working dinners, cigarette smoke, and regret. All passion. No patience. No plan. Only pride. Only pain.

    Look up. Look up.

    ...is better than its beginning.

Ecclesiastes 7:8

Dream Records #626-635 with Alchemical Notation

    #626 – Ted Bundy doing drugs to self-medicate. He tried to kill himself, you know. He had personal conversations like this one to lure you in. Brutal things. Burning, sinful lusts. 🜂

    #627 – The crowd is shouting for Cassius Clay to get up from the floor. “Get up!” The stress of panic attacks and manic episodes is too much. “What are you doing? Get up!” 🜃

    #628 – That duck is drunk. Or the other way ‘round. And I’m sorry if this embarrasses you. 🜄

    #629 – I’m in Russia, visiting. Seeing the monumental memorials again. I’m to meet my ex-wife at the flag garden honoring national alliances. But she doesn’t show and I have to raise the flag myself. 🜃

    #630 – I’m with Dahmer’s mother chasing UFOs. Her ways are movable. Her car is fast. Aimless down a crooked trail. We took photos, but they all came back blurred. 🜁

    #631 – A dozen parachutist soldiers in our church. Unannounced. They knock over the sanctuary lamp as they crash through the ceiling. But no one is watching. I think they should apologize but no one is listening. And the altar is burning. 🜂

    #632 – He moves his bishop across the board, favoring the concrete over the abstract. Food. Drink. Sex. These are the forces that motivate him. Because. Since. Cause and effect. Calculated pauses. No affect. No blinking. Bishop takes queen. 🜃

    #633 – His fingers. Her lip. And teeth. Too many teeth. And blood. So much blood. His screaming. Her smile. 🜂

    #634 – Martin Luther is pouring me a beer. “Come drink with me,” he says (though I don’t speak German). “The devil harasses, but you amuse me. Tell me again what you wrote in your book about the socialist Jesus.” Jack Lemmon is there too, but he doesn’t say a word. 🜄

    #635 – It’s the Zapruder film stuttering. Frame by flickering frame. But the convertible is empty. Loop. It’s the Zapruder film stuttering. Frame by flickering frame but the convertible is empty. Loop. It’s the Zapruder film stuttering. Frame by flickering flame but the convertible is empty. Loop. It’s the Zapruder film...🜂

Imagine the Mystery

    Just for one moment – imagine putting the pieces together, each one, everyone where they belong. Just for one moment – imagine that your son has known something other than a constant state of war his entire life. Just for one moment, one shining glorious moment – imagine the kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven.

    We are cracked down the middle, drifting half-finished in a fog of days, and weeks, and months, and years.

    This world, as it is, is not all that there is, not all that it could be. Not by a half.

    But here is the shape of our distress: we remember yesterday’s murder while we wait for tomorrow’s mercy. It is a mystery. A shock and a mystery. Inexplicable. Indecipherable. Malice scattered abroad and anger gathered together. The mystery of wickedness at work here as it ever was.

    Restraint removed. Unchecked. By the courts, by Congress, by common decency.

    With counterfeit American miracles and signs and wonders. Winning. Every wicked deception. A constant stream of lies. Lawlessness wraps himself in a flag; the rallying crowds embrace him and cheer for more.

    I do not understand it. It is a mystery but no surprise. They will not accept a love of truth. Strong drink with delusion. Believe what is false and be condemned.

    But imagine… A God who loves.

    Without exhaustion or self-pity. Without resignation. Imagine

2 Thessalonians 2:9-13

A Word from the Sidewalk

    I saw her from the street, silver hair and upraised arms. She was standing on the sidewalk, not screaming exactly, but speaking forcefully, directly. People heard her, of course. How could they not? But no one stopped to listen.

    “How long will we be tied to belligerent ignorance and ill-disguised racism, shackled to a patriotic frisson? We all have to live, with falling skies and civil defense alarms. With melting glaciers and flash flood death.

    “How long will we endure antinomian leaders hawking law and order through late night screeds. Apocalypse mongers and war criminals calling down a blood moon at noon. Glorified war on television but ethnic cleansing never in the news.

    “Overcrowded prison cells and three hundred years of malignant policing. Rock of Ages stenciled in the prison yard.

 “Strip-mined copper and toxic arsenic residue. Drinking water on fire. The shithole stench of a gravemouth trench. The machinery of money grinding flesh and guts. Night after night of self-slaughter. Black mass and massacre. Terror storms and whirlwind dreams.

    “It is the hope and stimulus of false reality. Delusions of death. We choke on schemes. We choke down screams. How long?”

    I listened to her for a while, but I had to continue on my way. The boss can tell if I linger too long in any one location. I wrote down what I could remember of her speech. I tried, but I’m not sure I got it all.

Proverbs 1:20-23

Now Is the Time To Prepare

    Now is the time to concentrate on the hidden things, secret things with apocalyptic elements made explicit by the revelation of the Spirit. Trouble worldwide and canceled ceasefire discussions mean exponential explosions in international weapon sales.

    The Bible clearly describes a variety of war crafts and military machines to be used in these latter days, vehicles and machines far beyond a first century comprehension – locusts and horses prepared for battle. Armored helicopters hovering over the battlefield with cannons and nerve gas rockets.

    Look. Look and listen for mechanized infantry with the sound of a thousand thousand chariots rolling through the valley with the nano-particle smoke of the abyss. Look for far-light lasers. Look for depleted uranium shells fired from naval vessels off shore. Shoulder mounted Jericho-flechette launchers.

    In the sky, networked autonomous stealth drones and long-range tactical bombers. In the waters, nuclear submarines and an aircraft carrier fleet in the Persian Gulf.

    Soon there will be intercontinental ballistic missiles launched with the word of the Antichrist’s command and two hundred million Red Chinese Lóng Flame Tanks crossing the Euphrates riverbed.

    The future is here with unparalleled opportunities. Now is the time to see it. Now is the time to prepare. Now is the time to invest

Revelation 16:12-16

I Would Have Set Them Straight

    The brothers of Goliath, you say? Yeah. I remember them. I fought in the Philistine wars with our shepherd king. I was barely out of short pants myself, but I was there with my bow and my sling, ready to take on the entire Philistine army myself. No sissy stuff. I was there to bring them down.

    There was Lahmi, who ate bread even as he fought his way across the valley, a loaf of rye as big as your head in one hand and a spear as tall as you in the other.

    And Isbi-Benob – the man from Nob. What a nob! He wore a bright new sword and thought he could kill the warrior, David. As if.

    And the other one… what was his name? The one with twenty-four digits. Twelve fingers and twelve toes. Six on each hand and foot? No. It was eight and four apiece. Strange, I tell you. And where did he find shoes for those feet? 

    And Goliath? Goliath. Well, you know the story that David went out with his sling and a few river stones. But I was there when the battle broke out at Gob in the western foothills of Judah. I watched Elhanan bring down Goliath. Man, what a crash when he hit the ground.

    People talk about David like he did it all alone. But some of us were there, and we remember how it really went. Funny how the scribes write it down one way. Funny how memory writes it down another. They should have just asked me. I would have set them straight.

1 Chronicles 20:4-8, 2 Samuel 12:15-22

Unsatisfied Unsettled

    Say nothing for those who see nothing
    concealed, suppressed trauma
    and unchecked philosophy

    The grinding, ruthless race
    of unsatisfied winner takes all
    the plots of violent hearts
    and lies of mischievous mouths

    We are conditioned by a lifetime of storms
    taught the ambitions of greed and malice
    brought up to believe this is the way

    But watch without envy
    and wait without impatience

    There is no future here, no reward, no hope
    the unsettled glow behind his eyes
    will flicker into darkness.

Proverbs 24:19-20

A Song of Ascent

    Look at me. I’m not so much.
    Not haughty, not proud.
    Not setting my sights above my stars.

    Except when I do.

    Then it’s all the small vandalism vanities
    hidden from the greater public
    behind the mask of an absurd person
    and my outsized ego banging
    on the walls of my little life.

    Let me be quiet and go away.
    He must increase.

Psalm 131

This Was No Mystery

    We have, in this last hour, this latest hour of perpetual crisis, one conflict after another, come to realize that we have not escaped, cannot escape the horrors of our own making. We are reluctant to go outside. There are NRON QSR lighter than airships hovering over abandoned apartments. Cameras mounted at the intersection to record suspicious loitering. Looking for people and cars out of place. Significance surveillance determines the meaning of our interactions.

    Opened seals and broken deals. A suffering trumpet. Dividing the times and polarizing the populace. We are the prime recipients of a collective malicious ignorance. The little horn spy has an effective vision. The vibration in my heel is an implanted tracking device.

    Observed by reporters. Reported to the police. Uniformed antagonism and the eyes of a man speaking lies. Changing the times. Redrawing the map to reframe his ego without any of the finer virtues of kindness, gentleness, and mercy.

    Why do you marvel? This was no mystery. It wasn’t a matter of inaccurate predictive history. We saw it coming. You’ve heard that the Antichrist is coming. But he’s already here. Now. With many varied reflections. A third of the country has followed a third of the stars swept out of heaven. We called it out. Hoping for the world to calm down. Look! Look! Look!

    But we were shouted down.

1 John 2:18

I Still Have Some Livin' To Do

    I wrote this song on Thursday as I was out carrying the mail. I sang it as I wrote it. Or I wrote it as I sang it. Either way this is how it came out. I sang it at church this morning. 

    The song is at the 15-minute mark in this video of our church service. 

I Still Have Some Livin’ To Do

His mercies are new every morning
but my morning glories haven’t bloomed.
It feels like the whole world’s dying
while I still have some livin’ to do.

There are butterflies in the garden
orange and pink, golden wings.
They scatter and fly away on the breeze
and I’m left alone to sing.

Grace, Lord, grace and love,
goodness to start the day.
Faith, hope and charity,
our strength along the way.

I hear dogs barking at strangers
and sirens screaming down the road,
if I know my brother’s struggling
let me help to shoulder the load.

My heart will keep on beating.
My feet will keep on the way.
I won’t stop though I stumble,
soon the night gives way to the day.

Grace, Lord, grace and love,
goodness to start the day.
Faith, hope and charity,
our strength along the way.

His mercies are new every morning
but my morning glories never bloomed.
It feels like the whole world’s dying
but I still have some livin’ to do.

The Same Agenda in a Different Hall

    It was the same agenda in a different hall. He knew where he was though he’d never been there before. Not that he could remember. His gaze shifted from the window to the closed door. From mirror to the fluorescent lights overhead. Back to the mirror. The glass.

    Scratched across the bathroom wall, a message: WE KNOW YOU’RE on CIA PAYROLL. He read it in reverse in the mirror. He heard footsteps at the staircase. He heard echoes from the walls, the whispered voices of doctors and drug dealers. A scratching behind the wall. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

    Then – a spontaneous displace of rage. Curses! He smashed the mirror and the room was dark. empty. The air was still.

    Was this the same crime scene? Two murders in two weeks. Two different murders in the same room. The same agenda in a different hall. Was it a mixed message? Crossed communication? Did it matter? The sensations were exactly the same. The smell and touch of blood.

    A moment of hesitation and he was back across the hall. Double-backed and empty. He smiled. “Terror on every side! Let not the swift flee away,” he chuckled. “nor the mighty escape but they shall stumble.” He laughed again. “Charge! Horses! Chariots! A day of vengeance and revenge!”

    He was not a religious man, but he liked the liturgy and the rhythm of the prophetic register. He was not a pious man. He was a killer. And a killer had arrived with an appointment for murder. He knew what was coming. And he was ready for it. “I am no one and nothing. Paroled and free to do as I please.”

    He’d received the word, a message from his handlers on his machine: “We have vital signs. That is a 1033 weapons transfer. Legal.” Authority was given. And power.

    Still that echo of a hidden voice. “I know what you did. I know what you did.” Scritch. Scritch. Scritch behind the wall. “Warrior upon warrior. The mighty man has stumbled against the mighty, and they are fallen both together.”

    The fluorescent lights flickered. Hummed at the back of his neck. A horripilation down his spine. The copper smell of blood. The ache in his tooth and burning in his throat. Pain is memory. Memory is pain. He smacked at his head to stop the pain and wailing filled the world.

Jeremiah 46: 2-12

The City Was Not Worthy of Them

    It was barely noon or just after, but already the sky was dark. I shivered and hurried on, eager to reach the city before whatever calamity this celestial portent indicated, but the earth lurched and I fell sideways and stumbled to the ground. I smacked my face against a stone and tasted blood. I spat and saw my blood in the gravel and the dust.

    The earth shook again and I screamed as rocks careened down the hills around me, cracking in half and breaking. A cavern opened in the hillside in front of me. And the wind whipped up. I heard a voice shouting – calling for God, though I could not make out the words.

    And from the newly opened crevasse there came a morbid parade. I saw the bodies of many holy ones walking forth. Their flesh still bore the marks of the pillory and the scourge. One carried her decapitated head in her arms. Another severed torso pulled himself along with his arms as his legs walked alongside. One young man had thorns in his eyes. They wore sheep and goat skins. They were bruised and emaciated. Some still had shackles on their wrists and ankles. I heard the clank of their chains as they marched out of the earth. I smelled flowers as they passed.

    “Media vita in morte sumus,” I stammered as these lively dead entered the holy city ahead of me. And the city was not worthy of them. “Speraverunt et liberasti eos.”

Matthew 27:51-53

But What of the Water?

    Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Do you work here? Can you help me? I’m looking at this rice and what I want to know is – has it been genetically modified? No. I know about that label. But what about the stuff they don’t label? The man on the radio was talking about how scientists are putting bull DNA into the rice. You know, hooves and horns and all. I didn’t really understand that. Something about a lactose intolerant condition. Enzymes, I think. So, I’m trying to determine if this is that bull beef DNA rice, ‘cause if it is, I don’t want it. I don’t want anything changing my genetic material.

    How rude! How dare you speak to me like that. I’ve been shopping here for fifteen years, and I’ve never been treated so rudely. I insist on speaking to your manager, young man.

    Hang on. Listen to me for a minute. Before Satan showed up in the garden, he’d already ruled nations. He’d been thrown out of heaven, fallen to Earth, corrupted governments, and led nations to slaughter. Pre-adamic ritual slaughter. We know from Apollonius the Egyptian that the Earth is at least one hundred and fifty-thousand and seventy-five years old. More or less. And the first fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil was a corrupted fruit from a wicked tree.

    Do you hear that? Is that the civil defense alarm? The tornado siren? Is it the regular test? Today’s not Wednesday, is it? We’ve had so many tornadoes recently. More than I remember when I was a girl.

    Did you hear about that murdered Catholic priest across town? It’s a conspiracy run, I tell you. I don’t have much need for the Catholics with their Roman popery and their idolatry. But all these premeditated acts of religious defiance are getting out of hand.

    What we need is prayer and clean living. Or prayer and fasting. Though all the modern Bible translations leave that verse out. Do you know why? Do you understand what they’re doing to our Bibles?

    What we need is prayer. And when we pray the angels hear us, and they hearken to our words. Talk to the angels and the angels listen. Talk to a mountain and it will obey. Jump itself into the ocean if you tell it to. The science of it is bizarre. It makes no sense, but it makes dollars, if you know what I mean.

    And what is happening to the totality of this body. My body? That’s what I want to know. The totality of this body needs healing. Deep frequency healing of the body chaotic. It’s the frequency of the stars. They’re singing a recalibrating symphony – the song of the Father. The spirit calls us into the song, and into the dance. Spinning. Twisting. Twirling.

    Now I’m dizzy. Let me sit down for a second. Whoa. Whoa. Okay. Thanks. Sorry. It all got away from me for a bit there.

    You’ve got to remember that we’re more than seed puffs in the wind. We’re made of dust sure. And the angels are made of pale, trembling fire. And the wind is the breathing Spirit of God. But what of the water?

Timothy – or Current Occupant

    I found the letter in my mailbox when I got home from work, addressed to “Timothy – Or Current Occupant,” so, as the current occupant of this address, I opened the envelope and read it.

    “Dear Friend and True Child of Mine in the Faith. Grace, and Mercy, and Peace from God to you.

    “You hold in your hands a way to change your life. For the good! Are you willing? Are you interested?

    “First you must ask yourself this question: How do we get rich? Blessed in the city and in the country? Richer going in and richer coming out with enemies fleeing in seven directions?

    “It’s true of course, that religion does bring some profit. Godliness with contentment is gain, as they say – but only for those who are content with what they have. Food and clothes are enough for some, but they haven’t received this unique invitation.

    “And the love of money, yes? The love of money is the root of many kinds of evil. Not money itself. You know this. I know you do.

    “People like you, who want to be rich, must be aware of the trials they will face, the traps of foolish ambition that await them. For some, a relative few really, have wandered away from the faith, piercing themselves with sorrow.

    “But you, you are…”

    I stopped reading there. I’d read enough. I wadded up the letter and threw it away.

1 Timothy 6:6-10

Echoes of a Trusted Psalm

    Here is a trusted psalm, held up to the light of bare bulbs hanging from the untiled ceiling. The words of the song echo from the cold, rough stones of the room.

    Do not love the world.
    Or what is in the world – cursed confusion, secret fraud and corruption in every generation. Car accidents and other roadblocks. Angled and wrong.

    If anyone loves the world – the familiar noise of a shattering empire under one imperial flag -
    the love of the Father finds no home there.

    Because what there is in the world – lying, stealing, cheating, mistreatment of others, murder, dismembered bodily desire, the lust of disordered eyes, and the pride of parties in possession
    is not from the Father.

    The bottles on the wall rattle. Electricity hums and the lights flicker.

    It is the world
    and the world of disordered desires, accumulative abominations, acquisitions again and again
    is passing away in a burst of fire.

    But the echoes of the psalm ring forever and ever.

1 John 2:15-17

For the Liturgy

    For the liturgy, King David and his religious officials and worship leaders established a school of prophets trained in the songs of the Lord played upon the harps, lyres, and cymbals. These are their names and divisions:

    Asaph, singer and songwriter, and his sons:
    Zaccur – who sang of love’s open door.
    Joseph – cleaning up the air, making it easier to breathe.
    Nethaniah – who thought it better to dwell alone in the wilderness, but moved to Jerusalem nevertheless.
    Asharelah – who had a rottenness in his bones, a cancer, but sang ever and on.
    They all prophesied under the king’s direction.

    Jeduthun, spokesman for unguarded truth and his sons:
    Gedaliah – dripping, dripping on a rainy day.
    Zeri – who kept his eye on the ball.
    Jeshaiah – was a welcome distraction from one little mistake.
    Hashabiah – took a turn for the worse.
    Matthithiah – who was honest about a deep hurt in his heart.
    Under their father, who played upon the harp, they prophesied to all who would sing along.

    Heman held up a hand with his family:
    Bukkiah – an angry storm over the lake.
    Matthiniah – blamed himself for things that were never his fault.
    Uzziel – lived in cynical times of terminal irony.
    Shebuel – loosed the bands and unbound heavy burdens to let the oppressed go free.
    Jerimoth – stood in the corner, listening.
    Hananiah – a safe haven for freedom.
    Hanani – always asked for the truth.
    Eliathath – with a tenuous relationship with sleep.
    Giddalti – like lazy clouds and loose dying leaves.
    Romamti-Ezar – a wildfire in the dark.
    Joshbekashah – waited and waited and waited and waited.
    Mallothi – knew the end of the thing from the beginning.
    Hothir – a devoted friend, dependable in the varying seasons of life.
    Mazioth – was left holding the bag when the lights went out.
    All these - and there were a great many of them, weren’t there - were the sons of Heman, the king’s seer, and they, along with three unnamed sisters who sang like the breaking dawn and dying day, played the trumpet and the trombone and sang to the accompaniment of cymbals, lyres, and harps for the liturgy of the house of God.

    Asaph, Jeduthun, and Heman trained in the songs of Yahweh, with their brothers and sons, all two hundred and eighty-eight of them, junior and senior, masters and students alike. I remember their voices. I am still singing their songs.

1 Chronicles 25:1-9

How Small Your Strength

    Samira, now living underground in sunless, soulless caves, unable to anticipate the changing of the seasons, and helpless to the elements, with burnt patches and skin lesions. Now suffering beneath the Babylonian spirit industry and hypocrites with cultured countenances. Spiritual influencers without scripture.

    Ignored disjunctive accents. Paused without proceeding. Will goodness itself be raised from the dead? Be not faithless but believing, right? Please. Please.

    House to house, imprisoned by militant Tribulationist agents of the government. Years and years given to cruel blackmailers. Soft vexations behind the stone. Scrubbed of profanity, but the vulgarity remains. A modern murdered disciple.

    “I’m tired of being…” Samira began but could not complete the thought. “Tired of being afraid? Alone? Exhausted? Maybe I’m just tired of being.”

    Heaven for height and unsearchable earth for depth. Climb into heaven and dig into hell.

    “My body. My hunger.” A human desperation out of her hell. A freedom of confusion. “I’ve stumbled my soul.”

    She examined her wounds. Daily injuries and strong stabbings.

    “What do you do when the world spins further into chaos? Overwhelmed by a near constant report of collapse. The housefire spreads and our children are electrocuted at school. What do you do when your heart fails, when you faint in days of adversity?”

    She sobbed. “My strength is not worth much.”

Proverbs 24:10

The Visions of Iddo the Seer

    These are the visions of Iddo the Seer in the first year of King Jeroboam, son of Nebat.¹

    When the sound of the fire died down and the desert wind, full of grit, laid low, I was found naked, more than naked, outside the walls of the city. I climbed the foundation of the walls and looked about the city. I saw the house reduced to scattered stones.

    I was assaulted by terror and unable to stand. I climbed out the window and stood on the sand.

    I saw stones stripped and laid bare in blind circles. It was the house of the dead, flying the banners of corpses.

    Men cowered behind the wall. Forced through barricades into darkened corners. The city was a great inhabitation of despair. And I was afraid to scream.

    Strange visions in my head during the night. Visions and a voice that said, “You must not speak of yesterday.”

    I saw beasts and stars and horns and slaughtered children in the rubbled remains of an open air prison. A shadow army. A whisper militia now screaming for the whole world to hear.

    I saw lightning and all the shekinah glory legends, all eyes and fire in the storm hovering over my bed. I saw burning olive trees beyond the walls and checkpoints. I dreamt of burning human bones ritually defiling the land. I dreamt of fish and cucumbers, leeks, onion, garlic, and watermelons rotting.

    The voice said again, “You must not speak of yesterday.” I sat long in silence listening. Waiting for another word.

    I saw hellfire fall from the sky to burn families fleeing in the dark. I saw the earth crack open to devour and drag them down. And the voice said again, “You must not speak of yesterday.”

And I knew it was not the voice of HaShem. And all I could do was scream into the sound of the fire.

2 Chronicles 9:29

1 922 BCE approximately. Scholars continue to debate.

Disappointed with His Face

    Nadim looked in the mirror and sighed. It was his face. It was his face and he was tired of it. Somewhere in the years he’d grown disappointed with his face.

    He’d never thought of himself as ugly. But neither had he considered himself handsome. His wife, Amina, disagreed with him, but he knew she was biased. He loved her, and appreciated her. But he knew she was wrong.

    His face was… too familiar. Was that it? Too familiar? It looked so much like his father’s face. Not that his father was ugly. And people had told him often over the years that he was the spitting image of his father. It wasn’t resentment; it was inheritance. His father was a good man and Nadim loved him.

    And his face was … too changed. Was that it? When he looked at himself in the mirror he saw both his face as it was now and as it was when he was thirty years younger. He saw the lines and scars and the weathering effects of the sun.

    ‘Maybe I could shave,’ he thought. ‘Or change my hair?’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘If I can’t be perfect, could I, at least, be devoted?’ he asked himself. And he wondered what that meant.

    Every difficult moral decision was there, reflected in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the crevice below his lower lip, the scar that jutted across his left cheek. Every long day at work. Every mortgage payment. Every parent teacher conference. He wiped the condensation from the glass and the tears from his eyes.

    He could hear Amina calling him to breakfast. He could smell the coffee.

Filled to Full with Seven Abominations

    You know the man, you know how he seethes and burns from the inside, though he occasionally masks it with a smile and smooth words. You know the malevolence within.

    - an old-man’s lust for a young girl’s flesh, his fingers in her hair, on her skin

    - a black-hearted scorn for people of color coming up from “shithole” countries. He calls them vermin. He calls them dogs

    - a gleeful delight as he imagines his enemies imprisoned. Tortured. He is concupiscent for their screams

    - a blasphemy of the ego. I don’t need to be forgiven. Don’t bring God into this

    - a vainglorious pretension grasping for power and money. I am a king to be adored, a god to be revered

    - a never-ending torrent of worthless lies. He lies with every breath

    - a predator’s hands splashed with blood

    Do not trust him, even when he grins for the camera; his unctuous heart is filled to full with seven abominations.

Proverbs 26:24-25

In Search of Words

    Yahya stood in the bathroom, looking into the mirror, trying to see the reflection of images in the television – a thousand hidden faces, twisting, kicking arms and legs captured by some impossible wreckage. He saw strangers and foreigners and pilgrims beyond the door.

    And he began to wonder

    about catacombs and cathedrals, soccer fields and train depots
    about the many multiplied paintings of Christ’s crucifixion
    about late night diners and midnight drone attacks

    And the glass shattered.

    “What is this?” he asked as a wave of panic washed over him. It was the same question he’d asked ten, twenty, a hundred times before. The same quiet exhaustion. He wiped his face with a towel and got dressed. That’s when he decided to go looking.

    ...he went in search of words
    but there were none to be found.

Proverbs 19:7b

Jesus and the Dogs in Dearborn (Matthew 15:21-28)

    We’ve spent the past few weeks moving through the life and teachings of Jesus as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew – lingering on his parables and thinking about his miracles. Today I’d like to continue that by taking the next episode in Jesus’ life, the next little pericope – as Bible students will call it – and treat it as a sort of parable. I want to tell his earthly story with a heavenly meaning with the goal of shaping how we live our earthly lives for the purposes of the kingdom of heaven.

    We’ve seen Jesus, in these past weeks, preaching and teaching the people. We’ve seen how they followed him for instruction and pursued him for healing. And now Jesus wants to find someplace to be alone, some place where he can get away from the seeking, searching, pleading, desperate crowds. He wants a place to recharge.

    So imagine Jesus going up and down through the towns and villages of Michigan. He’s been to Ann Arbor and Flint. He’s been up to Port Huron. But now, when he’s tired and wanting some place to be alone, some place where they haven’t heard of him, some place where he won’t be recognized, he and his entourage of disciples head to Dearborn.

    But while he is there a Muslim woman, wearing her hijab and carrying her small daughter, approaches him on the street and shouts out, “Isa! Isa al-Masih! Please, take pity and heal my troubled daughter.”

    She shouts so loudly that she is starting to attract unwanted attention, so the disciples say to Jesus, “Master, please. Give her what she wants so she’ll shut up and just go away.”

    But Jesus says, “No. I’ve not come for people like them. I’ve been sent only to care for real Americans. America first.”

    And this Muslim woman in her hijab pleads again. “Please.”

    Jesus says, “No. It is not right to take food from the children to give it to dogs. I don’t know you.”

    But the woman won’t quit. She says, “As the prophet, peace be upon him, has taught us, Allah has said, ‘O humanity! Indeed we created you from a male and a female, and made you into peoples and tribes so that you may get to know one another. Surely the most noble of you in the sight of God is the most righteous among you.’”¹

    And Jesus, looking at this Muslim woman, wearing her hijab and carrying her small daughter, said, “Woman, you have great faith. Let your wish be granted and your daughter healed.” And from that moment her daughter was well.

    Or consider again, German Jesus in Berlin, approached by a Jewish woman, “Bitte. Bitte. Heal my daughter.” And German Jesus says, “No. I can’t. I’ve come only for the pure-blooded Aryans.”

    Or Jesus in Georgia in the 1960s still under the Jim Crow laws approached by a Black woman with her daughter…

    Or Jesus in San Francisco in the 1980s at the height of the AIDS crisis, approached by a gay man, “Please heal my partner…”

    And Jesus replies to them – “It’s not right to take food for the children and give it to dogs.” Dismissive and denigrating, he speaks to them as if they aren’t even human. As if they are animals. Beasts. And this is ugly and grotesque.

    Now I am not saying that Jesus was an American Christian Nationalist, or a Nazi, or segregationist, or a homophobe, but in calling the Canaanite woman a “dog” Jesus was repeating the first century Jewish equivalent of these groups’ rhetoric, the same kind of ethnic and religious boundary language that has been used throughout history to exclude people for one reason or another.

    And it is ugly. But here it is. As I said before, Jesus’ parables are not simple. They are strange and weird, and sometimes told to deliberately confuse. It’s up to us to wrestle with them. And the same is true with this episode in Jesus’ life. It is difficult, and strange, and horrifying. And we must wrestle with it.

    Now the common explanation, the easy explanation of this event in Jesus’ life is that Jesus is testing her – saying the ugly thing to see if her faith is strong enough to overcome the objection. But Matthew never says this, never gives any indication of this. He simply records Jesus calling her – and her small daughter – dogs.

    But her humble response changes him. Her simple rebuke corrects him. He learns from her and grows in compassion. Maybe we’re uncomfortable with the idea of Jesus having to learn compassion. But the letter to the Hebrews describes Jesus learning obedience through suffering (Hebrews 5:8) and the Gospel of Luke describes Jesus growing in wisdom (Luke 2:52). Here we see that growth, that learning in action. Jesus learns compassion from the Canaanite woman.

    And in that moment of learning and growth Jesus says, “Woman! Your faith is great!” He is changed and in that change the world is changed. The child is healed. The gospel is not only proclaimed but put into action. And the Kingdom of Heaven is expanded.

    The good news, the gospel good news, is that Jesus listens and learns to love. The good news is that compassion builds the kingdom. The good news is that faith can break down the barriers between us.

    So we wrestle with this story this morning. And we ask the question: Who are the dogs? Who are the outsiders? Who are the unwelcomed? Who are the excluded? Who are the unwanted and unloved?

    The Jew? The black single-mother? The lesbian? The illegal immigrant? The red-hat MAGA enthusiast? The liberal? The conservative? The socialist? The atheist? Who is the dog?

    And what will you share with them?

1Surah 49:13 – Translated by Dr. Mustafa Khattab, 2016

Prophecy Club – Supplemental

    Dear Brothers,

    Because we failed to check the calendar, we did not notice that this month’s meeting was scheduled for Sunday evening (08.16.26 at 6:16 pm.) But, as was pointed out by Brother Agabus, Prophecy Club bylaws prohibit holding meetings on the Sabbath. So we have been forced to cancel August’s meeting.

    We apologize for the oversight.

    However, you will find included in this correspondence a brief report from Brother Joel. Please read and consider it ahead of our next scheduled meeting (09.16.26 at 5:47 pm). Be prepared to offer any corrections or expansions the Spirit brings to mind.

    Yours in Christ,
    Brother Haggai

    Here’s to wisdom. Consider now:

    Everything from finance to agriculture, manufacturing, military mining, and data-tech, all of it, the whole world economy is controlled by multinational corporations and conglomerates linked by neural AI relay. Every field. Every valley. Interconnected. Disconnected. Paradoxical fragmentation. Next time. This time. Division and subdivision.

    We saw it happening in Germany. And the same terrible pattern in Russia. In Czechoslovakia. Austria. Poland. Hungary. But the Tribulationists were brought to power in these United States, messiah-like, by false alarm and deliberate dissemblance.

    “We need weapons. We can’t save the world without guns.”

    Rifles, handguns, fire-systems. Well-trained soldiers fighting naked. Hearts and kidneys turning black. Zealous Christians hurling vulgarities, insults, and passionate abuse like the true patriots they are. There will be mercenary destruction crews for six months, four years, eight years of agonizing pain. And then comes death.

    But how shall we escape so great a judgment?

    You are not prepared to understand what comes next. Thunder is the warning that comes too late.

Topics for Discussion – Prophecy Club – Meeting May 14
Prophecy Club Minutes – 05.16.26
Prophecy Club Minutes – 06.16.26
Prophecy Club Minutes – 07.16.26

A Future History of a Remembered Apocalypse

    Fifteen years ago, just before midnight, on the night that the mounted police came to our door, I was in the basement writing unrhymed distortion poems for the Free-Radical Press. The horses’ Lorenz-Helmschmied barding was crafted of plaited ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene fibers. They rode silently to the door. We never heard them at all.

    We didn’t hear the blackwing Megiddo-Copters either, sweeping low over the valley with pulsar flares and active INVICTVS tracking systems. There would be no escape.

    The mounted police came with calamitous purpose, looking to deal punishment, harboring the view that the world needed God’s wrath to purify it and wearing neuro-peripheral interference shock gloves. The demands of divine justice held in human hands. We were alienated and estranged, enemies in the mind of wicked works. Dumbfounded and numb with broken hearts.

    Life inaccessible without proof of citizenship. Blood like the blood of a corpse without a demonstration of loyalty. Compliance. Peace through strength. And peace through blood. Split skulls and spilled blood. Casualties mounted.

    We heard a voice over the loudspeaker call out the command, “Go!” And the cavalry attacked, a hellish invasion with bitter biologicals and chemical weapon sprays. Federally authorized weapons of mass destruction. Flashes of fire and brimstone smoke and sulfur.

    An army of red-blooded pressurized American patriots was gathered at the place, ready to make an overwhelming assault with fireworks and jump-cut explosions. Two hundred million poorly trained agents authorized to use excessive force without legal restraint.

    I saw single mother saints and brown skinned prophets shot down and trampled. The house erupted into flames. I ran out of the house, scrambling to put on my shoes and my coat as I fled.

Revelation 16

Shadow Faces Loud Voices

    There are angry faces beneath the window as the day wanes toward darkness. Shadow faces with loud voices. There are boots on the gravel and hot breath fogging the glass.

    “Any last words before we plunge the hole with you?”

    “I told the truth, I swear.”

    How long for crushing shame? How long for speeches? If I’ve erred, my errors are mine. If I’ve stumbled, my feet are my own. If I misspoke, they are my words and I will eat them. Every one.

    “Forget it, asshole. We see you. You have the contradiction contained within your skin. Strange flesh…”

    Can you feel it? The buzzing, cockroach sensation behind your eyes… Clicking, scuttling, hissing. That anxious warning. An inflamed anger...You’ll never know what. You’ll just have to accept the encroaching darkness. It comes from inside.

    Do not open private doors.
    Stay out of sight.
    Come out of this selfish catatonia.
    We won’t be here long.

    Unheard protests against an impassable wall. Assailed from all directions. Rotted flesh beneath the skin. Bones and broken teeth. Uprooted and vanished. Everyone’s gone away.

    Record my words with iron. I have a living defender. After my awakening, set me close. And from my flesh, my skin I will see God.

Job 19

Golden Fire

    The expanse of the universe
    from one burning star
    to another
    waiting for the impossible,
    watching the revolution
    from grief and suffering
    to comfort

    The entire collection of angels
    past, present, future
    singing funeral hymns
    soothed into silence

    Thoughts turn to golden fire

A Technical History of Violence – part 1

     Si vis pacem, para bellum.

    Our contemporary language is indebted to the Roman men of action who had as many great words as they had weapons to wield when they needed them. Semper Paratus. Semper Fidelis. Great words to describe the human physique. Great words to understand the anatomical structure – jawlines and bone structures – of their subjects. They knew how to describe a variety of pharmaceutical effects. They knew how to accelerate the process when necessary. Roman guards with hammers and war-clubs killed as many as five hundred prisoners a day and filed the proper reports.

    But the toughest part of the executioners’ job – taking hours, if not days, sometimes as long as nine or ten days – was figuring out what drug and what dosage, precisely to finally kill the victim. Too much of the wrong drug and too little of the right drug produced equally unsatisfactory results. Administering the drug was precision work. You have to account for fungus and pH levels in the water, for barometric pressure, and semi-erratic auguries. Traumatic exposures of this sort often left them bleeding to death from the inside.

    Pause for the audience – seated at the bar in red shadow and gold lights, a moody backroom at the club on the corner. Drinking cheap beer. “Buy us a drink, player?” Lights flash green and gold in rhythm to the music from the jukebox. They do not look at themselves in the mirror behind the bar. Cigarette smoke drifts. Breathe. Prepare yourselves. Make your orisons here.

    They caught their victims by the beard – in every battle – caught them and smote them. Slew them with sword and spike. Many well-respected generals of the law were drawn out of the paw of the lion. They abandoned their soldiers to slaughter. All men most miserable, their young years given to cruelty and to blackmailers. Betrayed. Soldiers who trusted the day. Soldiers who braved the night, but were led to the slaughter.

    Our responsibility is for war. Our responsibility is to strength. In order to raise the mighty warriors of tomorrow, the soldiers of future generations, it is imperative that we make all the natural preparations. They need to be taught verbally. They need to be tested physically. This is freedom. War provides and strength enables everything.

Driving the Back Roads at Random

    It’s been a number of years so now we can openly acknowledge the story. Even with all the burdensome little asides, we can tell the truth. Try to reconstruct the story from the scattered fragments she left behind.

    She had time to kill, driving the back-roads at random, hurt and wounded, with a sandwich and two cups of coffee. She couldn’t go home to make things right. Or wouldn’t. She’d injured him. Reassured him. Shamed him. Shamed him and caused him to suffer. Hiding her disdain with twenty years of lies. And now the money was gone.

    What is happening here? The two of them, faces close, wedding pose...Flip the photograph and read the message. Reveal what was written even if it leaves us helpless. “My Darling...”

    I have no honest idea. I don’t know who she is. Or was.

    Behind the photograph, a newspaper clipping – something about a fire fifty miles away. Yesterday. For what purpose? Money? It’s always money, right? A significant amount of money. And maybe that was part of it. But she left and she’s not talking.

    Not about the money. Not about the fire. Not about her family. Not about the past.

    Whoever has the discipline of correction – she drives toward life.
    Whoever rejects it – she’s already gone astray.

Proverbs 10:17

White House Promises

    “Looks like rain,” said the man standing next to me as he sniffed the air. But, born and raised in the Midwest, I knew better. When the sky’s red and overcast in the morning, I know it will be storming soon. I know clouds in the west are for rain and wind from the south is hot. But this is neither.

    There were news cameras from all the major outlets, with a clear title and clean report. Cleared for the press corps by presidential aides, gathered on the lawn with their anchors prepping and primping in the ringlight. And me, taking notes for my forthcoming book – Misgoverned Houses and an Inheritance of Wind. No one would read it, of course. But the words must be written. Fame is better than gold, I am told. But I have neither.

    Meanwhile, dangling high for the cameras to see, was history in the making. A sentimental moment for salesmen without an ounce of self-denial. Salesmen with asymmetrical smiles, chewing the carpet. Explaining the complexities of imported mining exports and residual dividend transfers. Drilling holes for natural gas and paying off companies to not build renewables.

    The president was there. He was, of course, primarily concerned with conducting personal business under the presidential seal. Leaving a trail of unmarked graves and unexamined bodies. You know what they say about the pretensions of White Horse promises – conquering and to conquer the world. Only I can fix it... 

    And the press conference began. Flashbulbs and shouting. Can we ask about:

    Affordable health care?
    Reduction of the national debt?
    Lower grocery prices?
    Lower gas prices?
    Lower energy bills?
    Stimulus check? DOGE check?
    Greenland, Canada, Venezuela?
    Where are we with Iran?

    Over the intercom, a response, “No. No. Not yet.”

    “Is everything okay?”

    “No. Put that man out. Revoke his credentials. Put those questions aside - there are tourists exploding on the mall. We are as polite as overwhelming anger. All you weak reporters. Lazy. Failing.”

    “Looks like rain,” said the man standing next to me as he sniffed the air but you know what they say - White House promises are heavy clouds and wind, but no rain.

Proverbs 25:14

Long Time, No Time

    I don’t want to see it.

    Her face framed in the doorway like a mistake, through dimmed and dreaming eyes. You should see her now-bruised and bound, sick and wounded, erring. Her hair is different now. She is alive and well, honeyed and oiled, but looks abandoned. I reach out, react. Feel my throat break free. Out. Down.

    She says, “C’mon. One more kiss.”

    I don’t want to say it.

    She took and split, my ex of one brief period of grief. Forsaking friend and covenant. Why does she look abandoned? The way she leans, tilts one hip. She opens the door and moves closer with a mischievous smile, her most Cheshire. The ground is shaky. I notice her shoes-oiled and scuffed.

    She says, “Long time, babe.”

    She says, “long time, no time.”

    Outside her empty window, a basement staircase plunges into soil. A heart of shadow glooms in the doorway like tokens of light in a graveyard lot. The air folds. The porch lights flicker. The steps and sidewalk furrow. The driveway falls.

    I tumble into the collapse with her silhouette of sinking concrete, with damp earth and forgotten things. Flesh and body consumed.

    I don’t want to be led this way.

(Proverbs 2, 5)

Words to My Friend

    My friend, my soul, I was younger and older still, yet I would be true. I would be pure.

    I might have been strong but…

    Even if nothing goes wrong, my friend, you’ll suffer. One day or more of suffering. It is the way – sorrow and night with a sense of inferiority in all my actions and a sense of insecurity as the result of my words.

    So, I’m talking of my soul now, my friend, with private language, of my memory and all my goals and goods. Still with the doubts I do not know.

    Be strong and show no weakness.
    Speak less and be more positive.

    Trust me; I’m not here to supplant you. As if so poor a soul could restore a faith to jubilant psalm...

    I’m sure that I live feeling secure, happier still. A consecrated life. Confident, happy, healthy right?

    No, my friend, I am not.

    But take my offered, beating heart. God will move.

Questions for Review: Bodies

    How are the dead raised up?

    With a mighty whoosh, propelled by gases and burning at thousands of degrees. A violent wind filling the entire house. And fire like a flood, separating on the head of everyone, burning everything. Heart pounding within the throat. Blood splashed across the mirror. How is this possible? Historically? It is a mystery written in fire and in flame.

    And with what body do they come?

    Literally melting skin from their bodies like a horrific fireball. The lucky incorruptible survive – not subject to decomposition. Subject to char and to ash. Subject to cinder. A body of glory in black smoke. It is searching – not weakness. It is clawing in the dirt, flailing at broken windows, refusing to die.

    What is the ‘Spiritual Body’?

    Dormant for centuries, pent up, waiting for release. Like a plague. Razor-like shards of faces and torsos squeezed through the emergency exit. Bodies pulled from the iron furnace. Bodies under a shower of iron arrows.

    What are the four stages of the resurrection of these bodies?

    1) Men come back to their physical senses. What held them back? A bullet in their brains. 2) Petite women dragging themselves through an inferno, screaming through the smoke. Women armed with blowtorches. 3) Men of strength and security - a skeleton crew in the catacombs. Same agenda. Different crew. 4) Women breathing – barely. Coughing. Staggering. Screaming for policemen in the distance. Rushing toward from the fire in a spontaneous display of rage.

    Has the leak been sealed?

    Position his arms on the patibulum­ - the horizontal – and his legs on the stipes – the vertical. The largest of soldiers swung his mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through his wrist.

    Has the leak been sealed? Answer me.

    The leak was sealed, but the seals have been broken.

    What two purposes will the tribulation period serve?

    Slam the prisoners against the wall. Pin them there with a fire hose spray. Turn off the spray. Watch them fall to the floor. God will change these vile bodies so they can enter locked rooms, vanish from sight and appear in the clouds. There is no guarantee except exhaustion.

    Who is the beast of prophecy?

    AntiChrist. False Prophet. Slight of build and two inches shorter than me. Just another spoiled American, complaining. The local cops kick in the door, en masse for the arrest. Watch for a wicked chemical flash like napalm on white skin, bubbling black like burnt asphalt. Then comes the end – though none of it makes sense without the handcuffs.

    What is a literal interpretation of prophecy?

    More smoke than an oil refinery. More shit than a proctologist.