Tag Archives: jesus


I’m reading Dracula and finding flaws
in the logic of religions: 1) If
each belief is the One True Way, why do
writers bother with new fictional gods?
2) Did Jesus ever jerk off as a teen?
3) Is there an exact constant speed at which
Mohamed flies, Mary rises, or the
angels fighting Satan dutifully
march off to their not war to never die?
4) Does it make a difference to vampires
which communion wafers one chooses to
sterilize consecrated ground, or would
Eastern Orthodox work just as well as
Baptist, Mormon, Seventh-Day Adventist?


Simon cannot close his eyes any more. He has spent the last three days trying to hide himself in slumber, smothering his face beneath the sheets, but his damned and dying flesh has now rested far too long. On the second day he tried to suffocate himself with a pillow, and as the phosphenes of asphyxiation flooded into sight, he thought he saw the hand of Christ beckoning his body. But as Simon reached out to grab His hand, he was forced to face the truth that he was left alive, doomed by Christ to never die, to never find His kingdom.

He had come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. And Simon had been deemed unworthy. And so he has been sitting in his own shit for three whole days, a pestilential penance for the double life that he had led, the lies he’d told his lover, and the loss that he’d been dealt.

Simon sees the streaks of sunlight sneaking in through the slits of his blinds.  He shifts his torso to try to get a peek behind the shades without leaving Maggie’s side in their bed. That is to say, where she was before the Rapture. As he moves he hears the squish of the urine-soaked mattress. The liquid sound sends a signal to his brain that his body needs water, needs food, needs some kind of nourishment. But he’s too afraid to move, to see the flames beyond the window as the Devil lays waste to the land. Simon can’t remember what happens after Revelations, and he’s terrified to find out. Even worse, he’s afraid of nothing at all. That God has left, and with Him has gone order, the structure of things, and now there is no one left to make the world happen.

“Ding-dong, motherfucker!” the mob outside screams. “God is dead, you assholes! We fucking won!” Their chanting is set to the thick rhythmic bass tones of a pop song blasting from a large subwoofer. Before he infiltrated the church, Simon would have been out there celebrating with them. Now he’s not sure what to celebrate. Did they win the war, that legion of sinners outside? The Conservative Christian literalists they’d railed against for so long were finally gone, leaving the rest of the world free to revel in debauchery. But the Rapture was real, and those hate-mongering zealots who were God’s chosen followers had been whisked away to live with Him in Heaven. A never-ending gift in return for their devout service: a land without sin, without sinners, without suffering.

But Simon still wonders who has truly won: those who were right, or those who are left? And which side does that leave him on?

Then he hears a window smash somewhere on the compound. Then another, then another, then another on the ground of the house, followed by the sucking sound of flames filling up the space. Simon feels the heat begin to rise from underneath.

The Book of Sega Genesis

On the 8th Day, God created the Internet. He looked to it and saw that it was good. Adam & Eve were delighted — they finally had something to waste their time on while they were wasting their time in Eden.

Then one day while Eve was poking around the Internet on her Apple device looking for more videos of cats when she stumbled upon a link to a news article. A snake appeared in the grass beside her and hissed, “Ssssssssssscroll down.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, not having seen a talking snake before.

“Passssssssssst the article. Sssssssssscroll to the bottom of the page.”

And so she did. But Eve was still confused. “Okay, but now what I do?”

“Sssssssssssimple,” the snake responded. “Read the commentssssss. All the ssssssssssssecrets of the world will yoursssss if you jusssssst read the commentsssssss.”

And thus was borne original sin. And then Adam came by and said “First!”

Dad’s Diaries

Dad’s diaries are waiting in the top drawer of
a bed stand in the places that we go when we
get lonely for an hour. The paper-thin parchment
crunches when I turn the page, like autumn leaves
that fell from burning trees too soon;
translucent and impermanent, the noises
keep me company in every bawdy tomb.

I read my favorite stories to a girl that I
won’t Mary from the time when you were
thirty-two, and think of all the shit you carried
with you on your back (you never let it weigh
you down) and I am hoping to remember all
the things you taught me back when you were still around.

Dad, I see your diary was written down by
someone else’s hand, but I still remember
everything you taught me about how to be
a man. You’ll be glad to know your grand
daughter is working overseas where she is
farming in a fertile land and does it all for
free, and how I almost tied your grandson to
a fence the other day, but I just pelted him
with rocks until he bled out all the gay.

See, I’m trying hard to live my life
just the way you told me, or at least
the way I read it in this dusty little
story book where your friends had all
your best intentions written down.
But Father, I have got to ask how you
drank from that bloody glass and split
the fish while we were killing kingdoms
in your name, and how you loved the lonely
lepers and you knew your mother’s whore,
when you told me that the wicked
would not be let in your doors. But you’re
not around to give me all the answers
I might need, so I am forced to watch
as Mary takes my sixty bucks
for a fuck and leaves.

Last On the Shelf

I see her saunter down the aisle like a bridesmaid, beautiful, proud, and ignored. Of course, she’s wearing the pajama pants I bought her last Christmas, so it’s not like she’s actually trying to impress anyway. But she looks just as angelic as she always does, especially with that smile that says there’s snow outside. By the size of it, I’m guessing it’s the first snow of the season.

It feels just like the first time that we met; she dazzles under awful lighting, while I hang back on a shelf of some kind praying that she’ll notice me. That was six years ago, at a dive bar downtown; this time it’s at TARGET and I’m nothing but a box of LIFE Cereal left over the holiday past its expiration date. Still, I’ve probably got more going for me now than I did then, what with the lightly sweetened whole grain oats and low sodium. Six years ago, I couldn’t even afford to buy her a drink, and we still connected. Now, I can at least offer her a healthy and delicious start to her day, but somehow our relationship might be changed.

Did Jesus ever resurrect as an inanimate object? Maybe a cane, or donkey shit? I wonder if I’m eaten, will I resurrect again as something else, will I wake in heaven, where I can look down on her until she’s ready to join me? And what if no one eats me — what if one of these ignorant TARGET employees notices the expiration date on my side, and throws me in the trash? Will I rot, and die, and resurrect again, maybe as a box of Lucky Charms?

I try to wriggle, or move, or shake, something to make her take notice of me. Some way to make her take me home. But even my box is dull and nondescript, hardly the kind of thing that could excite a child, let alone an adult.

I wonder if this is punishment of some kind, purgatory for the wrongs I did in life. But the car accident that killed me wasn’t my fault — the other guy ran a light, well over the speed limit, and I just happened to be passing through the intersection. Is this God’s way of giving me another chance at life, perhaps? In my former life, I died too young (at least, in my opinion). This time, I’ve already outlived my own expiration date — but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

My thoughts stop racing just long enough for me to notice that she’s stopped in front of me, swiftly scanning through the shelves with her wide, multicolored eyes. She peruses so quickly when she’s shopping — I was never able to keep up with her. She makes her down from the top; she always scans top to bottom, right to left.

Finally, we make eye contact. Or at least I think we do, and she’s looking at the name on the front of my box. She purses her lips and smiles, and whispers to herself, “This was always his favorite breakfast.” For just one moment, I’m back in her arms again, held tightly against her warm chest; it seems to last a lifetime, and when I resurrect, I’m still a box of LIFE cereal, but now I’m sitting at the bottom of a grocery basket, going home with the woman of my dreams.

Missionary Position

She spits at my feet but looks to the sky
as she is blessing me, so full of grace.
Like Seraphim wings, the whites of her eyes
glisten, wide open like Saint Peter’s Gate

at the Endtimes, with no one left to save.
She drove three-fourths of a revolution
to arrive, humming hymns along the way,
but never thought that she would be the one

abandoned by righteousness, left alone
as Mary ails, asphyxiating faith.
Her whispered conscience knows not what it’s done,
now, or at the hour of her death:

Her only sin has ever been her pride,
a trespass greater than the sum of mine.