jesus and judas kissed in the garden
moments before the world caved in.
the gospel of judas says that
the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples,
that jesus took him aside and
taught him touched him laughed.
there are two sides to canon, history, myth:
someone somewhere at sometime
wanted a better story,
where the betrayer was held close
and favored, forgiven—
but the gospels all end the same.
the son is strung up for someone else's sins
as judas wastes alone in the garden.
intention is a matter of interpretation
but what is silver worth, really?

metaphor disintegrates
and you come to me in my dreams.
to love you after all of this
is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy.
you're not judas,
i'm just a mortal man,
and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge,
only apocalyptic revelations now.
the world is irrevocable, just born.
i miss you in the same way
jesus met judas' eyes on the cross.
somewhere in a field of blood
or a forgotten library buried under the earth,
there is a better story.
over time only becoming more unknowable,
hopeful fragments turning to dust
in trembling hands.

Knock, and it shall be opened unto you,
    If you, indeed, are true.
If so, the Bridegroom's door will open wide
    To let His guest inside.

Knock, but beware if true, indeed, you're not;
    For not one tittle or jot
Shall pass the Lion guarding, at attention,
    The door to God's dimension.  
He'll bounce you off the doorstep with a roar
    Like none you've heard before.

Water to wine and wine to precious blood
The Lord transfigures; taken at the flood,
    The dregs of outrageous fortune, once imbibed,
Will be like compost to a growing bud.  

So, drink and happy be, for all is well
In Paradise, where living waters swell
    The stilly stream by quiet pastures green,
And sheep in peace and pleasant weather dwell.

"Pigeon droppings cited in bridge collapse"
                             —Toronto Star

Behold the ***** birds that felled a bridge
Of concrete, iron, and steel routinely made,
Dropping by dropping, pigeon after pige-
on adding contributions grossly laid.
An engineering feat commercial grade,
The bridge could not withstand the pigeon poo,
And, from the scourge of filth, the bridge decayed,
And fell as all decaying things will doo.
(When not creating mayhem, pigeons coo
And congregate and caper in the park,
Returning to their nests—tu-whit tu-whoo—
Before the owl can hunt them in the dark.)  
And so we see the danger we permit
When pigeons are allowed to give a ****.

His right is right
And so's His left.
His burden's light
Despite its heft.

Easy's His yoke,
And, I attest,
A spirit broke
Is also blest.

Nestled within these rhyming stanzas will you see,
The six bothersome questions which plague me daily.

Is the bible a book of real history,
Or a book of absurdity and fantasy?

Is Jesus the Christ the only way to heaven,
Or a fraud who tricked us with clever deception.

Perhaps Yahweh is just a man-made deity,
Who ancient people invented to deceive me?

I told them that I am a Jew.
They beat me up anyhow. May the wrath of God be upon them.

Don't look for the rainbow's end. Look for it's beginning. That is where the gold is.

Death calls to death while true “deep calls to deep.”
Old rotting, cursed cadavers on our backs
with cravings crying foul for what self lacks
excoriate our wills with passion’s seep.
And, then, beyond self-damage to its host,
corpse seeks ignition in its kindred kind,
to plant arousal in another’s mind
and soothe its ego’s appetite to boast.
But Spirit beckons spirit up toward Christ,
to rise empowered o’er sin-flesh we bear
by setting mind on His desires and care
whose blood was cost at which our peace was priced.
If Christ be in us, let us then obey
and spur each other on along the way.