Ezekiel Goes to Washington

The hairless man was mute – and both of these were by choice. But only because he had no other choice but to obey the Voice of Heaven. When the clouds break and thunder shatters the earth, the Son of Man is quick to respond.

He carried under one arm a cinder block – certainly a strange sight in the nation’s capital, strange enough that secret service agents guarding the White House noticed him long before he set it down on the sidewalk outside the gate and began to draw upon it with a stick of charcoal he carried in his pocket.

The depilated man quickly and silently sketched the D.C. skyline on the block. Then, from another pocket, he withdrew a handful of green plastic soldiers. These he arranged in a semicircle in front of the cinder block panorama. With the charcoal he wrote one the sidewalk in large, bold letters: DAY ONE and lay down on his left side next to his display.

These antics were filmed by passersby with their cell phones – at least until the secret service vultures swooped down to arrest and haul the silent man away. “Was he mentally ill,” you ask, “or prophetic?” Who can say?  And don’t even ask about the lunch he carried with him...

Jesus, Be Civil

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – closing the doors of the Kingdom of Heaven so that no one can enter!

“Jesus, be civil.”

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – travelling the globe to make converts who are twice as fit for hell as yourselves!

“Jesus! Be civil.”

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – blind guides! Blind fools!

“Jesus!”

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! –scrupulous in your tithes, but stingy in justice and mercy, straining out gnats, but swallowing camels whole!

“Jesus, Jesus!”

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – You’re clean on the outside of the cup, but inside it’s full of the wine of corruption, the wine of extortion and intemperance.

“Jesus, be civil.”

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – You are white washed tombs and marble sepulchers, handsome on the exterior but full of death.

“Jesus, for the last time…

Alas for you, Scribes and Pharisees – hypocrites! – honoring your tradition of faith and building monuments to your founding fathers. You say, “Make the nation great again,” while murdering the prophets! You are children of those who have always killed the prophets, and you are continuing their work.

“Jesus! Jesus!”

Serpents! Brood of Vipers! How can you escape condemnation?

“Goddammit, Jesus!”

What Are You Looking At?

Photos taken at the Como Park Zoo in St. Paul, MN.

Plant a Radish

"Plant a radish, get a radish,
never any doubt..."

In Which Both “He” and “You” Mean “I”

He wiped the condensation from the mirror and inspected his reflection, the blue of his eyes, and the lines at the corners of his eyes. He lathered his face with shaving soap.

“I look old,” he said.  He sighed.

“Yeah, you do,” said his reflection.

He unfolded the razor, raised it to his cheek, then stopped. “What?”

“You do look old.”

He began, hesitantly, to shave the whiskers from his face. “Oh, come on. I just worked nine hours in a hot, sweaty factory. I don’t look old. I look…tired. I look tired”

“You look old.”

He put the razor down. “That’s not…”

“You said it first,” said the reflection. “You said it. I can only repeat. Reflect.”

You’re nine. You’re nineteen. You’re forty-three. You’re getting up at five in the morning to go to work and there’s hair growing on the back of your ears. It’s all there in the reflection for you to see.

Clean shaven now, he wipes his face. He didn’t nick himself with the razor, not even once. The mirror is silent. The mirror has nothing to say.  The mirror is unresponsive. He wonders if he should grin.