The Center of Things (a poem)

i’ve always admired monasteries

monks cloistered from total noise

alone with demons

swimming in silence & striving

for divine union that no one

can name, but only point

to, the center of things,

the seat of the soul

(Photo by Josh Couch on Unsplash)

Broad Daylight Demons (a poem)

a Black man has been slaughtered, again

shot like a dog, in front of family

did you see? it was broadcast

to millions of eyeballs

he suffered from bipolar

a disorder i share with this

now-deceased man

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Wormwood (flash fiction)

The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.

Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.

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Fallen Angels (a poem)

Satan rebels and fallen angels follow him

to the underworld – wings clipped, eyes ablaze

with red like the demons they are.

Stand atop this holy hillside and survey the city –

if you are the Messiah, then prove it.

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Tree of Knowledge

How can you know what perfect harmony is if you’ve never suffered?

It was like that for Adam and Eve, as they strolled through the Garden, bathing in sunlight and fresh air, at peace with all creatures.

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The Monk in the City at Midnight

The monks say that without an absolute zeal for God, religion becomes just another opiate. This is referring to Marx’s famous statement, that religion is “the opiate of the people.” Who’s correct – Marx or the monks?

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