THE LAST SUPPER

Inside the upper room of a one house they checked in. The Son of God and three men. Filled in around a table rather than nice pew rows. AND THE SON said: Take this... eat in rememberance of me. In rememberance of what? To what could you possibly mean? TO twelve sitting around a table that in the garden will get up and flee... Is this truly to show YOU... how you are forgiving?

Calling Young Sinners, Come Home

          White noise for promiscuous girls and boys. New toys made the sky rocketing of the pick pocketing brought to you by such and such fads. Call collect so that marketing can collect while you collect your new sense of identity and worth so that you can find a false identity, hoping that in four years when you finally reach early adulthood you might meet and become the real you. The presumptuous immoral compass... we put labels saying not for those 12 and under as if that which is not beneficial is a game to play with. But hey, you can legally become an alcoholic when you turn 21. And when you’re eighteen legally have as much sex that you can to deem kinky and as excessive fun. But really if you aren't caught Hollywood and golden globe nominees treat such touchy subjects as a playful strip tease that you, the general audience, can indulge in. No one's knees have to bow to moral and angelic decrees. We've kicked our next generation’s knees down to where they can feast the delicacy of infestations, pig slops of disease. Feasting upon what drives our culture in which the media prostitute sits her unGodly womb upon. That which fifty years ago was frowned upon. We are rolling around up and down in our dung pile of happiness... as if our own cheap occupancies can satisfy and quench such a royal and eternal vacancy. And such a God was mocked, defied, crucified. Pierced in the side. A prince then wrapped in cheap linen in a rich man’s tomb. Clothing for a dead man left in perfect order as evidence of a resurrection. And yet as we're inspecting we are still holding unto the earthly garbs of the evidence of a resurrection. We wear the cheap linen even though in our own guilt we bleed. We bleed out in our subconscious. We are soaked in things of a spiritual battle indwelling that some would call faulty apparitions or a blind, conceited, depleted hoax... but I tell you, this... this is no joke. Inspect. Inspect and interject in my indecency. Cause from far away you truly thought I was me. But really what I preach is only what I tell you to be. I'm the teenage day dreamer. Youth, which I think is stuck in a standstill. Look at me. I got all the time to kill. BUT!!! IF YOU TOOK THE TIME TO FIND ANY FAULT ANY CRIME!!! You'd see that I have lied... that it's not after I was baptized that I had resurrected all these things. Those old ways! I've just turned the page to new days. BUT!!! Please if you would just look at this... touch this with compassion that I got a glimpse of from some scripture that painted my salvations picture... If I saw the Christ in you that was calling me home... Maybe, finally I would stop this promiscuous roam... If you calmed the current in this black hole...  And made adventures for a citizen’s soul. Then maybe, just maybe I would finally learn which way to go.

Pale Skinned Infant

I'm an infant of pale white skin. Bones scattered and thin. As if my own flesh and bones had no reason to move. This world being the big blind canvas. Shaded in a dark blue. Left looking for that which through my humanity I have been called into existence in a cracked, broken stance.
I'm the frail stance, saved by Mercy Hands over the killing of some merciless men. Body covered with telephone ads. Ads coated to the skin like a paper mache. Body tied by the coating of such a mache. Only the lips left to move... enough to call out this way.
WHERE'S THE FAMILY... that we once had... should have had... I thought I was born from a mom and a dad. But that ole abortion clinic made a one spouse a hopeful cynic cause boy you where no twinkle in that daddy's eye. And though God's made a miracle of you, the autism has still made you, by mother’s arms, casted aside. The cutting of the umbilical cord of this son... a proclamation, a celebration of the family... it's a shame it won't ever be done.
If only those bandages could speak... if only those telephones ads could really speak... if one unborn child could show the will to love and to hold and to feel. I wonder. I wonder if the stirring of the womb... if it would have ever been stilled. If we saw the dreams of an unborn before the curtain was torn and the injection was poured into the already living form. Abortions are not the answer to carelessness, lust, or rape-date-porn.
Telephone ads make for nice gauzes and pads. But the addresses of numbers tell of hopeful lawyers and practicians that I wish for my own sake could petitioned a better deal. And the rest are these: Those careless practicizing the American ideal that you can have what you want. Sex is the fast food train of society. Brown paper bags holding leftover burger scraps. Our new morality using dirty rags to cover up the 3 to 22 ounce life-stripped meat bags. The end result bringing two things shame and being sad.
And if we don't like the way that feels pop a morning after pill. The 21 century steal that won't change the way your stomach projects or the morning sickness you really don't wanna detect.
The 21 century abolitionists think they have saved young women from bondage and slavery, rather than having them take on the responsibility of pregnancy God gave thee.
I don't think the case for the woman carrying some extra baggage around for nine months will cause my mental structure to heal... or the dead to be able to taste, touch, and feel what life must really offer.
I am getting a taste of the life I thought I was to live.... because when I was casted and molded I was already confounding the laws of nature... that soul would be put in a single cell XY chromosome. Smaller than your doting of that i on that piece of paper as you signed that waver.
That new generation having a dependency even before the start of infancy. And yet because of a clinic souls live in fear of being put into a genocide... where the dependence on a physically mature shell is all they have to hide. But the fetus is too unformed to kick... isn't capable to yell. So how do you let them know that you confide in them before they rectify such a earth based hell?
Please someone... open up a census. Look at the names missing. Do you really get the idea? Are you sensing what I'm sensing? Or look at the empty desk seats in a school and then look at people like me who's protectors became fools. Our desires can become weapons, and hands unGodly tools.
I'm sorry I wasn't in the plan but it could have panned. What happened when on those supposed guardian wings of parenting that folly would rip a tear into understanding instead one shedding one single tear on selfish planning?
But please don't assume I think we should lock up the mothers of church's sisters and brothers. It's our societies teaching on morality that is on the decline. I'm just trying to spread some Godly wisdom. That maybe you too would see that when it comes to the responsibility of caring for the unborn he's and she's that from the genetic code at conception has already been planned 9 months before infancy. I hope you take the situation more delicately, that you are nursing the next generation. That your womb and your seeds create a place for the sacred, holistic plantation. Sins do not carry unto offspring. Only the consequences the choices bring.