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INTERVENTION
by Holly Day I dream of running away and joining a cult, or a church, some place where I can lose myself completely in fake religion, pure religion, the dreams of one crazy person with enough hope and love for us all of humanity. these are the days I fantasize about stigmata, marking myself with real bloody holes caused by fake god intervention, fantasize about speaking in tongues, kissing snakes being found on the stoop of kind missionaries, these are the days I dream of not being me. |
ETHIOPIA by Baxter Jackson |
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MAMA DOESN'T GO TO CHURCH ANYMORE
by Erren Geraud Kelly Mama doesn't go to church anymore Fascism covers the world like an eclipse As i look for a rainbow at the end of the road At the coffeehouse she waved at me I saw her curves, a beat, my heart skips Mama tells me "you should go to church more" They're hiring down at the warehouse The economy, like a concerto, rises and dips People are looking for a rainbow at the end of the road The gangs on the streets are your new gods Watching the news these days, is a trip I should go to church more Ford and Carrier didn't go to Mexico She sits as blues, like kisses fall, from her lips A con man promises a rainbow, at the end of the road Stop looking to others for your happiness Be your own savior, on your life, get a grip Don't just go to church, but pray to god more It won't matter who the leader is He's just a leader, jesus is your king It won't matter if you go to church more The rainbow within you is the end of the road |
SWORD OF RIGHTEOUSNESS by Brent Wiggans |
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CHRIST ON FIRE
by Robert Fabre Christ on fire Sexual desire Flowers bloom before eyes Deprived of all sight, Dance in the moonlight of clouded endeavors. Petals wilt from soiled hands. It seems that saints have lost the battle. Axes fall that kill innocence. Love is hidden behind pointed objects, that pierce the flesh, that heighten the Now; Where is the actor? but now simply an Instrument of Death. |
DREAM TUNNEL by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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NO RELEASE
by Timothy Pilgrim Dreams of her swim in again like red-gilled trout lying deep in a Montana stream. They school, eager to feed — hold back, skittish, fearful of being hooked, flung into tall grass, lying still, gasping only at the end. One after another flash past my Black Ghost skipping by — each, a gold, green streak reminding me what I catch I cannot release. |
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