We met by pure chance on a warm summer midnight. I, once again, couldn’t sleep and had gone to the park as I often did when insomnia hit. He was sitting on one of the swings. I’d never seen him there before. The first thing he said to me wasn’t “hello” or “what are you doing out here so late?”Read More
I am not the man my father wanted me to be, but this is not a desperate attempt to elicit your sympathy or pity; it is simply the truth. I first realized this at age six when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My father had hoped for the best and the brightest, but instead got a son who had to work at what came naturally to everyone else. I’m 18 now, so I’ve adjusted to my role as the perpetually disappointing son.Read More
“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?”
-Macbeth, Act II Scene 2
“And he said, ‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'” -Revelation 7:14 The shadow of the tree cuts across me Dividing, decrying, vivifying. “Are you the King of the Jews?” The question rings in my ears. But the cries from far off Cavalry interrupt my concentration as Legion pound nails into His feet, into His hands The spear-pierced side leaks water, and blood and I wash my hands of it. It stains the Gol’gothan sands below; my hands remain sullied. I believe that I had power to free or to crucify. I cannot blame the people for Barrabas. My appeals were not enough for this. I can blame no one but Pilate. I am no one. So recently I decried those fearful Sanhedrin yet their pharasaical concern for cleanliness seems all the more real now: How can I eat what my wife prepares? Days later, with blood-soaked hands, I throw the dinner to the floor, and leave my dream-suffering wife, and wander the still-hot streets of Judea. I hear cries about a torn curtain as it begins to rain. The quakes had not yet come… These memories, after that day long ago. The shadow of a temple now cuts across me a temple to the Goddess of Love; I turn away. Your followers eat your body, drink your blood. I hear such rituals whispered in the darkness and I wish I to join them. To wash your blood from my hands with your blood, to wash the invisible with the visible, to have your blood wash my robes clean. I tell no one, and yet I fear: Is this my own idea, or did others talk to me about you? Why do I comeRead More
It smelled like he drank His blood
every day of my life for
seventeen and a half years.
He had his own Chapel
down at a corner in town.
You could spot his car in the parking lot
from a mile away.
There wasn’t a pastor at his Chapel.
And my father did most of the talking.
The Chapel was Irish, I think.
And there were collection baskets
that the men would pass around.
Funny; they were labeled “Tips”
The men bowed their heads
at their own special times,
slow, dipping low, just like
in First Communion class when we were
all trying to learn the rules for what
we are supposed to do when the Pastor says
this or that or the other thing.
It smelled like he drank your blood
like a goddamn Dracula
by the gallon.
And Jesus, you bled white.
Jesus, you bled white.
That made sense when I was a kid.
You were pure, and your blood
couldn’t be the same color as mine.
Couldn’t be the same as the blood
that dribbled down the side of my mouth
when he slapped me for asking him
why he left me standing in the rain
waiting for him at school
angrier that I failed the test
than at the fact that the bus
had left without me.Read More
My friend Billy is a bit rough around the edges. I would never call him handsome, and though he doesn’t exactly smell, he definitely has his own peculiar scent. He may not be the strongest, the most appealing, or even the most dependable. But what can I say? He is a comrade of mine-a darling, if you will-and nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever change that. Oh, quick author’s note: Billy’s a car.Read More