GreyParty

He knew she was gone
but he couldn’t look back
to see her final form,
never realizing it was her
absence he tasted each time
he was in the ocean,
each tear that crept
to the corner of his mouth,
each drop of sweat he licked
from his daughters’ bodies.

[Included in Issue No. 1 of Relief Magazine ==>

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Why do I post this? Because my response is what I hope to garner from every poem I personally write. What was my response?

“Hmm … wow, I hadn’t thought of that . . . deep . . . HOLY $H!7!!!”

: a sense of new found depth, quickly followed by shock and cognitive dissonance.

Maybe this is why the editor of a Christian Mag told me they could only publish one of my peices, for fear of pissing off more people than they already did. He also said he’d like to put my rejected peices on his wall, as a testement to the type of Christian lit he would like to publish.

Or it’s because I sometimes write things like this… (see “knowledge”)

Can the mold be broken just a little more often? The Bible is messy, because life is messy. Humans are messy, and God is often covered in our shit because He loves us.

If Christian writing can’t capture this, then let’s burn all the Bibles and just go HOME, beacause there can be nothing left to be gained by reading it after subtracting the reality, or from continuing on down here with a set of cracked, rosy-colored Jesus glasses.

Or maybe I should just start drinking.