Who I am is the difference between
who I want to be and who I'm not...
It's never who you want me to be.

Sometimes the only triumph is the continuance of our breath.

There are thoughts that should never be spoken of - only contemplated within the quiet solace of the heart from where they ascend to become our dreams - nurture our hopes - For the greatest love is the one imagined.

Do you know that I have not believed in you for centuries? Of course you do you’re omniscient. If I don’t believe in you then to whom are my thoughts drifting to? I thought once that I had seen your works in all living creatures. Every aspect of nature was once dressed in the splendor of your creative essence. Then my vision enhanced, my senses grew, giving my mind clarity, my thoughts expanded and ventured into dimensions I could not have scarcely imagined had I not died of grief so long ago, and become what I have, perhaps all in your name. I gave myself to what I had thought had been my desperation to end the culmination of a life lived in service to you, I wanted to be rewarded as all the faithful had before me, instead I have been torn a part much like your servant Job, who I know only existed in the imagination of those who live by wishful thinking. Such is the truth of this world, that there is no universal link that connects all things, that the spirit we so eloquently call our soul is merely the rationalization of a mind haunted by its own insecurities and doubts. The only magic and mysticism is the one we create for ourselves. And when in your absence (as many wish to believe) the emptiness is filled with evil - they believe you don’t allow it or suffering, that it is not your Holy Ghost that compels them to slay one another, to enslave, to abuse, to torture, or imprison. The abominations, such as me are the spawns of Satan! A Satan that they believe has nearly equal power to you. But I tell, you I came not from Satan but from you. In my centuries of breath I have yet to see a devil or a demon save those of the human kind.

Yet I sit here foolishly, speaking to the darkness as if there were some consciousness that could actually hear me, that consciousness I imagine for now to be you who I believed in once and that in doing so created you out of all the despair and horror that I have given and taken. As I hold the heartless child of your loins in my arms, her lips parted with the last syllables to fall from her tongue, the last word she spoke was my name, not yours, but mine! I was her God! I delivered her from evil! I freed her soul from the torment of a life in service to vices of the men that held her, though it was my deeds that left there to endure. But mine are not so unlike yours are they? What good was your salvation to her when she was raped nightly? Her piety served only to numb her from the beatings. Her hope in your heaven filled her heart with reason to die. In the last moments before I took her from you, she knew there was no God, no heaven, and significance in her existence beyond feeding the flesh of her tormentors.

Like you I waited, I listened, I watched her suffering until she stood on the edge of insanity, as she fell not feeling the tug of your divine chord, I caught her, held her, loved her as you couldn’t, comforted her mind with whispered entreaties of belief, which were lies that I offered without hesitation, for my love for her was – is – greater than yours will ever be for any of those that think you love them and you have created out of your love. Or did they create you?

The final sacrament was to bathe her in the blood of her oppressors. She drank of their hearts imagining she was taking you inside of her. I lulled her to dream of things so fictitious that the laughter of such ridiculous things shaped her lips into a smile, her big doe eyes glazed like mirrors, filled with unspent tears, my name she spoke as I gazed deeply into their depths, only then did I drink of her, absolving the sins she thought she had committed to have suffered a life as she had. You are always the last to be blamed for suffering, one day when they all wake up to the reality of what omniscient and omnipotent really mean then you will cease to exist. I will rejoice that night, though I may have to wait many more centuries for that celebration – I will wait – I will endure – I will hate every moment I spend beneath this canopy of stars that has lost it’s luster with the death of this child I toss into the fire.

Copyright Jesus Cruz Jr 2007

She said to me, “he kissed me on the mouth”, and the last taints of innocence upon those lips dissipated from my mind. The fury of not having been the one to have tasted her lulled me into a dispassionate revelry, hope lingering that maybe one day I may drink of her love.

For whom do you live?

For what do you die?

If not for none, then you simply are, as a stone simply is, or cloud simply was, nothing worth remembering is ever simple, faceted it should be with every image, scent, and texture that makes its real and sets it apart from vagueness of this place of dreams in which we live.

With pathetic excellence I divest myself of dignity and invest myself into the squalor of her thighs. We tear at the flesh hoping to find some sanity in the pain.

"Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise..." Percy Bysshe Shelley

Psalm of The Dead
The night grew with a distorted horizon undulating from the heat of a reluctant sun sinking beneath it. A thin veil of clouds, punctuated with pin pricks of light that grow ever present above the smoldering, fading remains of the day.

My vision, accustomed to the shadows, adjusted quickly, the reprieve of darkness a comfort to them. The layers that protected me from the day fall away, dropping with my rising relief, free of their oppressive weight, I stretch my limbs readying for the hunt. This is how I came into the world – bare and bereft from the confines of the womb – this is how I shall depart it, naked and irreverent.

The shadows become darkness, my hunger turning to madness, and I remember the old man, the stone hand of God, who I found decrepit and deranged, against a wall soaking in a tepid pool of his own filth. His squaller was perhaps the result of having lived his years executing the will of his god, with little reward but the hatred of those he persecuted.

I stood before him that night I found him, recognizing him as a man of the cloth, I asked him for his blessin - I recieved none.

"Father", I spoke to his god, "how is it that your righteous servant you abandoned? Did he not serve you well?"

No answer came from the emptiness.

Then to him I offered, "Would you drink my blood to save your soul?" He shutter for a moment sensing the mockery in my voice.

This specter of salvation for whom I felt no compassion, I left to rot and be found by those he had once chastised - but before I turned my back to him, defecated by his own faith, he whispered wild eyed with insanity and despair this psalm;

( The Psalm of The Dead )

It is always darkest before the dawn. The deeds of the night burned away by the light. The veil lifted - all that remains are decaying vestiges of nearly forgotten memories that struggle for life. Alone beneath the blackened sky no one hears the cries of ecstasy or knows the agony on which I thrive.

I once held onto my visions of longing for the blue, that in the mirrors of their eyes I found reflected, my redemption, my love I believed was there, but devoid they are, I have not found a god or a devil, nor a love greater than my lust for blood. There is nothing truer than the essence of the senses, the flesh is my reality, writhing with the sunset I awaken upon the earth to sacrifice in hope, that the god I once believed in would heed my prayers for eternal life, free of this despair. But there is truly emptiness between the stars. The echoes of my deeds die with the morning light and the silence of my soul covers the night of day.

Only those that believe in God can hate Him.

The unspeakable allure of the touch.
The impermanence of the warmth in a breath,
Released between glances in motion,
Lost in the confusion of passion,
Forcing coherence out of something so
Chaotic as love in lusts embrace -
Is pointless.