Reasons Obama cannot be the antichrist
Obama does not appear as an angle of light
And instead is a rather dull policy wonk.
There is no mark of the beast on him.
I’ve not heard he has any tattoos.
People do not fall down and worship him.
Justin Bieber comes closer on this one.
The nations do not gather around him.
The nations do not gather around anybody.
He went to Israel, made nice and came home,
Besides, Israel hasn’t come up with that red cow yet.
He not charismatic enough to lead the world to ruin,
Wall Street has jumped the gun of on that one,
Not to mention all politicians
Seem to be controlled by outside moneyed interest
And it would have to be the other way around.
Caffination
I’m afraid to leave the house
And risk missing the return of the fancy coffee machine
That’s been away for repair
Of clogged arteries and a broken pump
Sitting this very moment
In a box, in a truck,
Alone in La Grange,
So does tracking tell me,
That it comes today,
Yet not what estimated time it will roll
From said facility, nor when it might arrive
That I may push a button to dispense
Espresso or Americano, latte or cappuccino,
And free me from the suffering of electric perk,
And return me to the morns I’ve come accustom to
These latter years, spoiled and grumpy
At the inferior coffee I am forced to drink
Until the favored one returns.
In Chairs
No, it’s not what you’re thinking,
It’s more out there,
Out over your heads,
Into your feet,
Hallucinogenic symphony
With a Twilight Zone edge,
Not your ordinary excursion,
A different kind of trip.
Sousa might roll over.
Doc Severinsen would barely recognize,
Sorry he missed it.
Lawrence Welk would hear a revelation
Or run screaming
From Muca Pazza in chairs.
One a day
A poem a day is only an ambitious project,
I said joking, if I said they would be good,
Not that I don’t want them to be good
But the concept of a “good poem”
Is subjective after all,
So if you think about it,
If I have enough “friends” reading these daily word things
Which we will generously call poems,
Because even the idea “poem” is subjective,
Then coming up with good “what-ever-they-ares”
Is not so hard after all.
It seems to me the hard part is all on you,
It seems to me the hard part is all on you,
Having to wrestle with several philosophical questions.
- Is this a poem?
- If it is a poem, is it good?
- Will you place your poetry judging ability on display and share it with your Facebook community thus stating in unequivocal terms you not only consider it a poem but one worthy of sharing unless, of course you put a smiley face after it absolving you anything anyone might think your trying to imply by what you posted.
- Will it make me feel bad if you don’t share. :)
Anyway, I’m calling them poems
And I’m writing one every morning. Frosted Flakes
Frosted Flakes
Every morning I look into my head
To see what is appropriate to share,
Knowing full well my act of self-censorship
Is at odds with free expression,
Though somewhat eased as I friend only adults,
So consider this a warning
Because I’ve been wanting to comment
On the videos displayed when I go to work out
And I’m afraid expressing my opinion
The majority of them seem to be
Young women trying to out slut each other
And that it’s possibly Madonna’s fault
For making soft core porn sociably acceptable,
I’ll get a lot of flack
Even though I willing to admit the economic viability
Of women parading themselves as objects
Would not be there if no one bought what their selling,
But then we’d have to start thinking about
How advertising and capitalism
Have used women as props for a long time
And how our culture of consumerism
Is related to Steubenville
And I’m afraid if I imply
What really made America Great
It would just piss too many people off.
Good Friday
The day commemorating Jesus’s death is called good.
Considering He was nailed to a cross
And hung there in agony to suffocate
When He no longer had the strength
To lift Himself up to breathe,
It seems strange to call it good.
If He was only a man and we who believe are all deluded,
I grant you it would not only be strange,
It would also be at least sadistic.
I claim no proof he rose from the dead,
If that’s what you’re expecting?
But I know who I used to be,
I know who I am now,
Poor witness that may be.
I also know the change I’ve seen in others
And because of those things
I’ve chosen to latch on to this story
Of hope and redemption for all,
And I do mean all,
As I figure, the way some of us act,
Some of you are wondering.
I guess all includes them, too.
Anyway, according to the story, before the cross,
There was this curtain,
And only the high priest,
One man in the whole world could enter in and talk to God.
When The Christ died,
That curtain ripped from top to bottom,
Opening for everybody the way to god,
So they say,
And so we choose to believe.
That’s why we call this Friday good.
The Kingdom of the Not Yet
The part of being a Christian usually glossed over,
At least in my experience
Is who I am
While living through the difference
Between the now and the not yet,
An appropriate discussion for
A Saturday between two sides of eternity.
In the now,
I’m still looking forward to that other shore
From the bondage of this one
Where death and decay and screwing up big time
And living with the carnage my stumbling leaves behind
Is the norm,
The unavoidable byproduct
Of the process of being alive.
You see,
Being a Christian,
If I’m honest about it,
Even with all my glorious potential,
Requires a no-stone-unturned consciousness
Reveling how profound,
My need of a savior is.
I would love to be able to make it on my own.
That knowing I can’t tends to suck
Is usually not talked about.
A guy walks into a bar
Have you ever been all excited
And tried to tell a story,
And you’re met only with blank stares,
And you think to yourself.
I guess you had to be there?
It’s kind of like that.
I believe some people were there
Who have passed the story down
And the first time I heard it,
Yeah. I thought,
You people are whacked.
However it is with other people,
It took me years of “unexplained phenomena,”
Odd big and little coincidences and
Revelations maybe?
And I’ll admit there is still a part of me
That thinks it all sounds too out there,
But I guess it is pretty far out there
That a virgin gave birth
To the Son of God
Who was crucified, died, and was buried,
And rose again.
But you know what?
To me, what’s farther out there than that,
While acknowledging much mystery and things I cannot explain,
I believe He is risen.
Well,
I guess you have to be there.
If you are,
Halleluiah!
Happy Human Day
Is this day for me?
Is the world trying to tell me something?
I could claim some kind of spiritual attainment,
Bask in the glory of my own self-righteousness
Having achieved being a fool for Jesus
Requiring a significant amount of context bending.
There is ample president for it,
The Hillsboro group
Or that Christian Militia form Michigan a couple of years back
Is evidence enough for that,
But there‘s plenty of those kind of fools
So I don’t think Jesus needs any more
Cluttering up straight and narrow,
Though, come to think of it,
We’re all, at least, a few cards short of a deck,
Enlightenment wise,
Unless, of course, you’re claiming enlightenment,
In which case this day’s got your name all over it.
Reluctant Spring
I’ve decided it wasn’t me and my sandals
Messing with the weather god’s heads
Causing spring to drag its feet.
It’s the crazies
Chomping at the bit
For the long hot summer to rile them up
Into a frenzy of inappropriate behavior.
It’s not your fault, spring.
You can’t help it.
The crazies live in a universe all their own
Unusually subject to the laws of thermodynamics.
Their molecules get all stirred up
Into outlandish patterns and trajectories
Causing some of them to move to Texas
And stir up trouble.
But you’re really good for the rest of us,
Making us breath in earthy smells,
Trod gently on grass in bare feet,
Look longingly at our spouses or significant others.
So come back, spring.
The crazies are going to do what they do,
But the rest of us really miss you.
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