Archive for the month “April, 2013”

Let Him Who Is Without Sin

Let him who is without sin cast his eyes this way and that to find a stone, and recall how often, with those same eyes, he has lusted after a woman, and thus committed adultery with her already in his heart.

Let him walk towards that chosen stone and remember on how many occasions those feet of his have wandered away from the straight and narrow path.

Let him stretch forth his hand to pick up the stone, and bring to mind those times when his hands have grabbed at that which was not theirs to have.

Let him feel the heft of stone cradled in his palm, and consider the gravity of guilt cast upon the hypocrite.

Let him draw back his arm to execute the execrable one, and let him glance toward the man whose arms will stretch back to welcome wrath as an innocent victim.

But let this one who is without sin, think not for a moment that he will cast the first stone, for the woman has cast the first thousand at her own soul.

Let him who is without sin, consider this.

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Between the Sheets

Here is the exploration of the dark, dank caverns of existence.
Here the bouquet of feminine beauty bedazzles the eye.
Here the potpourri of human emotions swirl in tornadic fury.
Here the king and the beast lurking within man is revealed.
Here prim and proper ladies shed all vestiges of delicate decency.
Here priests become scoundrels and villains hear confessions.
Here is death conceived and the living live as if death were dead.
Here fools dance blindfolded on a tightrope of barbed wire.
Here joy is not only in the omega of the destination, but the alpha and beta and gamma of the journey.
Here, between the sheets of paper that embody a book, is all this and more.

The Finger of Thomas

The hand that had formed
Thomas in the womb
Beckons his hand touch
His Creator’s wound
To trace in that scar
The demise of death
And creation’s life
In the Spirit’s breath.



Marlboro God

Give me the one God whose tattoos are scars,
At home in incense or Marlboro bars.
Who hangs with those the religious reject
And welcomes the man expelled by the sect.
Who’ll wash filthy feet and touch leprous skin
Who died for Grandma and all her gay kin.
Whom whores will worship and murderers laud,
Give me the one man, whom I can call God.


Running on the Outskirts of Life

When the walls are closing in on days when being alone is the last place you want to be there is a park where trails will take you near the outskirts of life where you can feel the pulse of family and friends who gather there to celebrate whatever they celebrate on a day when God came back to life and all who live live in and by him whether they know it or no.

And there I ran.

I ran past a Mexican family where present was surely a Jorge and Mary as custom requires and a boy who maybe was six swung blindly at a piñata shaped liked a jackass whose insides were sweet but unreachable and who seemed to mock the boy who struck him as the adults chanted violent encouragement to the juvenile aggressor.

And I ran on.

I ran past the smell of hot dogs burning on a charcoal grill that someone with too many beers down his throat to care had forgotten about and the odor of a dog who had taken a shit on the trail in defiance of decency and past a tattooed crowd of perhaps ten who were enjoying the fruits of nature whose smoke I have been tempted to inhale to forget the troubles of life yet never have.

And I ran on.

I ran past a girl with an unmissable bosom walking two dogs one on her right hand and one on her left and she smiled at me as I ran past and looked liked an angel of temptation but from her lips was a resurrection greeting of Happy Easter which I returned and didn’t look back though I’m certain the dogs did with protecting glares.

And I ran on.

I ran past a herd of cyclists who were laughing at their comrade who had dared ride down a steep trail composed only of rocks that mock tires and had flown over the handle bars halfway down and whose skull was intact only because of his helmet and who looked back in disappointed pride at his shirt when I lied about the blood stains that streaked his back

And I ran on.

I ran past a butterfly in the path whose wing was broken so I stopped and returned to pick it up from the trail so no one would walk on it on a such a day as this and I held it to my lips and whispered of the glory that was his because he and his kindred are icons of the resurrection of their Creator and if he died surely it was a blessed death but that I hoped for his healing and I wished so that I was St. Francis so he would understand and I left him high on a flower as on a martyr’s throne.

And I ran on.

I ran near where a doe and buck were taking an afternoon nap and frightening them they went on their way so I walked to where they had slept and the grass was flattened with the outline of their bodies so I knelt down and placed my hand to their image and felt their warmth and even placed my nose to the earth wondering if possibly there was a scent that remained but all I smelled was the grass that had been their bed.

And I ran on.
And I ran on.
And took a little life back home with me.


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