Wait, if Jesus died for our sins,
wouldn't his sacrifice be in vein
if we don't sin?

Or, is it that
he was killed
because of our sinful nature?

Further, would his selfless redemption have been possible without the ever-so-hated Judas?
Isn't he just as necessary as Jesus to this tale?
Just as the Devil is with God?

I guess I'm overthinking this.
Thinking begets trouble.

Lucinta slams fist against her breast
Cerberus three-headed dog howls
In unison screams, either side of dream
“Take his body from this place!”
Christians march sewers of Rome
Mauritanian archer recognizes his face
 
Sebastian’s body is resumed
And buried at the feet
Of Peter and Paul, ground so hallowed
Irene and maidens weep
Her herbs, tincture not swallowed
This time it is for keeps
 
Diocles murdered twice
This Patron Saint of Athletes
Piercing arrows, which were undone
By Irene’s tender grace, now replaced
With blows of clubs by Emperor
Of a Rome which begins to waste
 
He saw it coming, plague of plagues
And knew the Christ was Risen
He ****** all from Milan to Gaul
And Christians were so imprisoned
And each convinced another man
Of this immaculate and pristine vision
 
So on it goes unto this day
Athletes wear insignia on silver medal
And delivery to us a new plague
While good veiled Italian women do peddle
The famous artists nouvelle vague
Will this martyrdom ever not settle?
 
Sebastian as Sadomasochist
Will you hear devotee’s prayer?
Or must I continue to pierce myself
With points from here to there?
End thine madness thyself
And show this world your care

The wooden pulpit split
cracked like thunder
and from its splinters
came life, green and flowing
vines that slithered and twined
their bodies from pulpit to pew
and from it burst roses
every color of a sunset
except those holding together
the pulpit she stood behind
those were white as the moon.

Fat, tall, and poor, well a young girl
couldn't be anymore different or
shouldn’t.
Hard headed with no tears, I
so wanted to be made
in that single moment of creation, of
fire.

There they stood in black
huddled by the books on
‘craft
in the aisle for young fantasy
we stood glaring, laughing, judging
not glass, but a shiny mirror
reflecting.

Slipping out of school early,
brandishing new bags and clothes,
lies  
feet treading along the linoleum tiles,
of halls and malls, sitting in cafés
the pressure changing what showed on the
surface.

Needle pierced skin over
and over again, so much
fire
the pain throbbing, spreading
as ink sunk into my skin
crafting little by little a symbol
pagan.

Hello old friend
it's time again for flannel shirts
and dead leaves
bitter coffee and cold breezes
jack o' lanterns are our totem
and 4am that knows all our secrets.
its autumn again and the veil is thin
I hope the witching hours Find you well

I was drowning in holy water to get to you,
Praying to a man I couldn't accept for you,
Burning in the next pew to get close to you.
You sewed your hands for your God
And tried so hard to lace that red thread through my flesh.
Faith is a mighty tree you blighted with Doubt.
Belief is the sunshine you shadowed in Fear.
But, oh my God, you are my creature of temptation
And I'd forget it all if you would too...
But your hands and sewn together
And my mirrored palms are still healing from your needle.

Gitano yawned,
stretching out under
the shrine of Öli.

Here he plotted
and hid a mouthful
of secrets; and the Lord
watched over him
as he slept.

He plotted,
for coyote wisdom
is disguised by folly
and cunning
and guile.

All about, the vermilion
stain of Mars. The coyote
chuckled mischievously,
dreaming at the feet
of the Master and Judge.

Above,
a ziggurat raised
to the Goddess.

Two great black eagles
circled in a sky
of dry roses and lilacs.

La Santisima Muerte
stood at a distance,
yet bore Gitano
in Her *****.

His mischiefs were scribed
upon a cartouche
to amuse gods
and teach men;

Yet men are not
so easily taught
as gods are amused;

For men have not yet
learned to believe
what makes them laugh.

And so Gitano sleeps,
and talks while he sleeps;
wherefore the Ways
of mischief and trickery
were laid bare.

The secret is to teach
at the expense
of innocence.

Certain illusions persist;
they must be shattered,
but their thrall
can only be broken
by design.

Whether bitterness
takes root in the wake
of the shattering
is not Gitano's concern.

Because sometimes
realization can only come
through being made a fool,
revealed to ourselves
as absurd.

Angry at our own foolishness,
we blame the one
who denudes it.
The coyote, too, is a Fool.

A Fool can learn,
shaping destiny
by taking responsibility.
Through death a Fool
becomes wise,
seeing the joke.

The burden of karma
is left to those
who cannot laugh.

Man grits his teeth,
his brow furrowed.
He despairs.

Gitano chuckles,
unperturbed.

You wear a symbol of your religion
And I wear one of mine

But what is yours?
A representation of the torture of your Saviour
Some saviour he was
He couldn’t even save himself.

And what is mine?
Mine is variform
The woman, the moon in all her phases:
Maiden, mother, crone;
Waxing, full, waning;
Gentle and innocent, beautiful and wise,
Severe and ancient, a luminescent She.

Or is it a five-pointed star
Whose meaning is so great, runs so deep
That each point represents something
Many things:
Earth, water, fire, air, spirit

The dark of night, the glint of a blade
The roar of a fire, or perhaps an ocean
The life that rises inside me as I sit
Patiently, for I need not wait
For some saviour to revisit the world
In the guise of a man.

My salvation, my life, my soul is all around me
All I need do is not kneel
Is not pray, is not confess through a grid
To a faceless, nameless monk
Not spell out empty sayings with beads
Or contemplate the haloed face of a woman
Whose head must always be covered
To show her modesty
Her purity
Her virginity.

My god can be a temptress, or a man in the midst
Of a waterfall of pleasure
A cascade of love
For in that there is no shame.

Or she can be a ******, giddy and naive,
Or the young boy who watches her closely,
Blushing when she passes
On the road
For in that there is no shame.

She can be a mother juggling children,
Or one of those children,
Or the light of a single candle flame
For in that there is no shame.

But what she cannot be
She cannot be repressed, or tamed, or halted
(though she can be gentle)
She cannot senselessly abandon those who need her
(though she can harm if she must)

She cannot stand by and do nothing
As innocents are pillaged
Nor can she throw a grubby blanket
Over the heartless slaughter of black and white lambs.

She cannot rip at the seams of despair
Tearing them further still
Proclaiming all the time that despair
Is the only way to the great virtues.
She cannot do that
She cannot be that.

She will not be the one who extinguishes the flame
For in that there is shame.
In that there is shame.

I could show you such things as you never have seen
But I'd have to go back on my oath
An oath I never made, but which
Stuck with me, the most sacred of things
So sacrosanct that even to say the words of the oath itself
Would be to break it.
Rarely is holiness so raw
Yet when that place is found
When the moon descends
And the water rises
Something shifts: and the veil is slightly lifted
But only slightly, for
Personne ne peut enlever la voile d'Isis
Even if we know how
Especially if we know how
Yet sometimes, gods willing,
It thins itself slightly
But only slightly, and
We catch a glimpse of the way things really are:
The way things could be.