jesus freaks and the percocet revolution part. 1

aka: the atrophy of southern sensitivity

the term: jesus freak

a bible humping and thumping individual who uses the "lords" word as a prop for their internal dilution of self. the person who cannot seem to find any other raft to cling to in the abyss of self-help and explanation other than the pulpit prostration's of a man with an inflamed prostrate gland with his impotency hanging like a mist over a magnolia, screaming about the damnation of everyone who cannot see like he has seen. the woman who is crouched with her hand over her mouth catatonically whispering catechisms and beading with pearly-white frustration. thin-white skin stretched tight exposing blue veined sorrows like reflections in a remorseful moonlight.


sunday morning: rattlesnakes and redemption

sitting here in the looming mists of a southern magnolia morning under the roof of my most controversial, yet favorite auntie i am forced to reflect on the bigotry of the post-modern, born-again, "have you been saved" Christianity. in jesus name i pray that the dual sided sword of redemption pokes a hole in their hot-headed misnomer of Christ and personal opinion.

as i sat next to my born-again auntie at her church, ensconced by 3, 25 ft x 25 ft teletrons and surround-sound Christian rock i fell into the catatonic stupor of sunday morning sobriety and southern fried redemption. 3 hours later, after i had "been saved" by walking from my stadium seating to the pulpit stage so i could be anointed with NC tap water by a disturbingly attractive preacher-man who proclaimed into his 1993 Madonna-like a prayer- headset that "we can now rejoice in the light of the lord, for you have been saved! Praise Jesus!"

"Praise Jee-sus!" erupts in the sonorous southern dialect, guided by the auditory enhancement of 1.2 million dollars worth of concrete and carpeted tithes. i reach down into my now kneeling, righteously whispering, wal-mart woven auntie's bag for a percocet in an effort to remedy the painful de-evolution of the catfish fried revolution.

3 long hours of preaching, and rocking, and AMEN, Praise JEEEE-sus' later, the congregation is finally declared worthy enough of Christs' love to plunder through another listless workweek of 8.5 hour workdays for ungodly employers, doing ungodly things. my mind cannot help but to calculate what freedom can be offered to the suffering with the tithe that created the psuedo-sanctuary these fat-bellied, red-faced, suspender wearing country folks are now rushing out of so that they can get to cracker barrel, bojangles and of course, bob evans before all the other mindless congregations do.

sausage and gravy laden biscuits flavored with the backwash of percocet laden revelry. i tip my head back with a mouthful of sweet tea in an effort to wash down the southern baptist bigotry.

--escaping amerika- speed demon--

blinded by ego maniacal ambition
cannot see past me.
sleep deprived yet full of drive-
feeling so alive and hopelessly dead inside
the crone drone monotone banging the cage with her blackened age-old rage

charcoal coloured vomit leaves stains on the drains of my mental toilet throne-
release of the ragin' agin' ravenous roaring woman inside
-cannot cry cause my hips are dry- cracked, pussy camel backed-
left to die on the dawn of forgiveness

consumed by the emptiness

my souls hotel sign gleams neon bright red vacancy
drive through thighs
blindfolded and fumbling through emptied pockets for the change that i need to make
caffeine dreams turn to sour urine streams
staining the powder blue panties of an ethereal sky
cotton white clouds burned nicotine yellow
tangled up in gods golden robes
trying to get lost in buddha’s elongated lobes-

drowning the ID in a perkaset daydream
stifling the daily scream of my consciousness
streaming- young and sleezy-
coke drizzles rain on the brains of the underdeveloped
sizzle of potential in a frying pan of pain
fatback feeds the obese mainstream
clogging the arteries of would-be amerikan dreams
settled and sedated in suburban bliss
dodging the dream draft and clinging to a perkaset raft
asshole pinched in political constipation
bloated with the travesty
of prepackaged food and self-abuse
reminding myself that this state is self-induced-
mind muscles flabby with lack of use
uncle-sam approved toxin use creating a wealth of health care abuse-
fat man keeps getting fatter
fodder for the federal fire
piled on the cocaine high of skyscraper stilettos
hanging by a designer thread

a pendulum of karmic dread.

spiritual trek: how to hike the mountain of sky-high thighs

life is indeed fragile, but the joy comes from its continuity. there is a persistent , beastial need to breed that overwhelms most all creatures during their time on this plane. thankfully, this habit ensures that we will forever be a presence to control the animal kingdom, natural resources and iraq (hah). i, personally, am a firm believer in sex, death and rebirth; Hinduism, Buddhism and the general recycling of energy. i believe that this form we recognize to be human is but a shell harboring a vessel of greater and sexless magnitude. we exist because of the cosmic energy that we each maintain. due to the fact that life indeed sucks, this belief system gives me a grim hope that death is only a demarcation of the souls movement to a higher evolutionary spot.

what is truly tragic is that we don't know how many times our souls must reincarnate before reaching the highly boasted, spiritual nirvana that buddha and krishna had their panties in a twist over. nevertheless, swathe these beliefs of reincarnation with the scientific rationale of quantum physics and its multidimensional-every moment is in constant repitition- and energy and time become an illusion created to bind us to this reality. binding us to feelings of repression, angst, anxiety, anger, jealousy and sorrow. in my humble, young, vaguely educated opinion i have only come to one profound conclusion (and i had it seared into my body in the form of stylish mandarin characters): LIFE IN MOTION. ya' just gotta keep on moving, keep on doing, keep on being and make each seemingly trivial or painful moment an amplification of memorable beauty. carpe fucking diem