Northern California sunshine, so bubbly brilliant, begins to dive behind a friendly horizon, promising to be back soon. The sky becomes a thick wet blanket. Droplets of water form on rivulets of freshly cut grass spreading its tranquil suburban scent like withering flowers on grandmothers' windowsills. Staring up at the thickness called night, it becomes sticky black licorice. Its sandy bitter sweet flavor rolls in the sheets of my mouth. A treat for some. Tastes of shit to me. I hate it.
We had left the warm sanctuary of pine rafters and stained glass panes into the dew veiled field. Damp, cold and empty, save for the slow shuffling of feet that now wondered around for a place of prayer or silence or both. Kneeling in the grass, a congregation of sad contemplative souls trapped in their own deep wells of sin and guilt, shuffle by as face cards of Hoyle – unremarkable and repeating in different shades of black and red. A dark splotch of water forms on my blue jean knees and spreads through thick weaved cotton, claming my skin, forcing my body to tremble for warmth.
The Church in the distance shouts in silky yellow spotlights that surround its perimeter, its steeples fade into black shadows – towering and foreboding, a glimmering cathedral in a world without candles. A towering silhouette wonders among us. He comes slowly, wafting his spirit like myrrh in the heavy night – richly sweet smoke that thickens the air and burns the eyes. We called him Reverend. Moments ago he burst and tittered while raging and feeding on a screaming sermon casting sin and doubt asunder. Fodder for the flock.
"…beaten and bloodied, strung up on the cross, nails hammered through his flesh and tendons, a crown of thorns casting a waterfall of blood over his face, Christ calls out – Father forgive them, they know not what they do!"
-We called him reverend.
As he passes the scattered flock, some standing, some kneeling, some mumbling prayers aloud, some silently, some weeping transfixed and reaching out for an omni hand, he steadies faith graven eyes not upon us, but within us – souls quaked in fear and love while the distant shadowy steeples caught ablaze in the night. The swishing weighted steps approach through the wet grass beside me. In selfishness and anticipation, I pressed my face against the cool wet grass, mocking a monk in prayer. Unfortunately, God is a space that cannot be filled with form or water. My prayers lack purpose and direction, dying of thirst before being born. A memory passes…
Lips fumble and glide across each other
Cold sheets are slowly pulled over naked
Bodies in moaning repetition
A crucifix slips and chimes gently sliding
Atop milky cream skin, drifting like
Creek leaves caressing down a slender neck
Hurried breathing brings Christ among black
Lace and the valley of her breasts
The night stand's radio say's
"Sunday's the Lords Day"
A fleeting musing smile caresses my face as blood rushes towards erection. My face is wet with dew. Bowing there in twisted prayer, the reverend shuffles in the grass beside me. His presences drops boulders upon my soul.
One. After. The. Next.
Boulder. Exhale. Boulder. Inhale. Boulder. Gasp. Boulder. Smothering. Boulder. Hysteria. Boulder. Blackness.
Boulder. Boulder. Boulder. Boulder.
Gray cold stones erect a monument of guilt in a wet grassy field this heavy night. A soul trembles the stones violently, trying to rip fleshy sins from its self, suffocating under guilty weight, pleading for salvation under oceans of rock and flame.
I Wept.
We had left the warm sanctuary of pine rafters and stained glass panes into the dew veiled field. Damp, cold and empty, save for the slow shuffling of feet that now wondered around for a place of prayer or silence or both. Kneeling in the grass, a congregation of sad contemplative souls trapped in their own deep wells of sin and guilt, shuffle by as face cards of Hoyle – unremarkable and repeating in different shades of black and red. A dark splotch of water forms on my blue jean knees and spreads through thick weaved cotton, claming my skin, forcing my body to tremble for warmth.
The Church in the distance shouts in silky yellow spotlights that surround its perimeter, its steeples fade into black shadows – towering and foreboding, a glimmering cathedral in a world without candles. A towering silhouette wonders among us. He comes slowly, wafting his spirit like myrrh in the heavy night – richly sweet smoke that thickens the air and burns the eyes. We called him Reverend. Moments ago he burst and tittered while raging and feeding on a screaming sermon casting sin and doubt asunder. Fodder for the flock.
"…beaten and bloodied, strung up on the cross, nails hammered through his flesh and tendons, a crown of thorns casting a waterfall of blood over his face, Christ calls out – Father forgive them, they know not what they do!"
-We called him reverend.
As he passes the scattered flock, some standing, some kneeling, some mumbling prayers aloud, some silently, some weeping transfixed and reaching out for an omni hand, he steadies faith graven eyes not upon us, but within us – souls quaked in fear and love while the distant shadowy steeples caught ablaze in the night. The swishing weighted steps approach through the wet grass beside me. In selfishness and anticipation, I pressed my face against the cool wet grass, mocking a monk in prayer. Unfortunately, God is a space that cannot be filled with form or water. My prayers lack purpose and direction, dying of thirst before being born. A memory passes…
Lips fumble and glide across each other
Cold sheets are slowly pulled over naked
Bodies in moaning repetition
A crucifix slips and chimes gently sliding
Atop milky cream skin, drifting like
Creek leaves caressing down a slender neck
Hurried breathing brings Christ among black
Lace and the valley of her breasts
The night stand's radio say's
"Sunday's the Lords Day"
A fleeting musing smile caresses my face as blood rushes towards erection. My face is wet with dew. Bowing there in twisted prayer, the reverend shuffles in the grass beside me. His presences drops boulders upon my soul.
One. After. The. Next.
Boulder. Exhale. Boulder. Inhale. Boulder. Gasp. Boulder. Smothering. Boulder. Hysteria. Boulder. Blackness.
Boulder. Boulder. Boulder. Boulder.
Gray cold stones erect a monument of guilt in a wet grassy field this heavy night. A soul trembles the stones violently, trying to rip fleshy sins from its self, suffocating under guilty weight, pleading for salvation under oceans of rock and flame.
I Wept.
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