Reconnect with Jesus

Mint it new, put some electronic keys behind it and a synchronized light show.

Ask a group of people who believes in God these days, you’ll get a census of confused faces. It’s unpopular, not very trendy. If we’re looking at optics here, it can be construed as sexist. Racist. Christian acolytes tend to be overbearing, overrepresented in news media and billboard traffic. It’s time to change that.

Imagine the layout of the average church — not very aesthetic anymore, right? I mean, back then, in the days of the great architects and carpentry it was a marvel. But as we’ve seen before, they don’t really meet fire code regulations anymore. Wooden structures, they go up in flames too quickly. Glass mosaic windows shatter with weak baseball throws, we have to change these ideas.

I don’t think I even have to mention the average church goer at this point — beer belly jersey shore fade haircut obesity, trundling down the aisle excited for that communion wafer, that little sip of wine and they’re on their way. They gather out on the entrance staircase and talk about the big game on in a few hours, where they’re going to consume their diabetic pancakes after the whole song is said and done. If you change the setting, you change the status. You see now where i’m going with this.

Big, nondescript building. If we’re addressing perspective, the average church looks too… churchy. We need to innovate, to become uniform with the other buildings on campus. Spacious, you could wander inside and still not know where you are unless a service is in session. That way we could get some new believers, perhaps a few lackluster employees could benefit from the blessing of a higher power. And! Instead of those drab choir hymns, we can get a full band to perform before every sermon! Install a log machine, full band spread, make the whole thing hip and hop.

Most Google campuses don’t even have churches yet! Supposedly the harbinger of innovation, we haven’t even taken a second to look into the past. Into what our employees would see as another addition to the live-in campus experience. Sure, only about 2% of our demographic reports being “religious” and “believing” but that’s a 2% that has to go elsewhere for their spiritual entertainment. Imagine: the aisles full of trendy Google employees, Chino slacks and Cardigans, all united in prayer. Picturesque. 

A clientele modern Jesus would be proud of.

Classy in Chicanery

They learned to respect us on foreign shores.

Sea dirt, clogging your pores. I’m a glorified mop sponge, paid a high class salary to do so. I have a title, i’m introduced at all of the social functions as Captain, i’m more of a picture show. A sailor in the outfit, they give me salutes and look ready to arm the torpedoes. I hardly attended the Naval Academy, I didn’t expect this early retirement.

Only in America, we’re so fat that we need a sturdier runway to lower onto Jamaican piers. They’ve gotten used to the pudge, the confused sweating waddle-mass headed starboard to the tourist beaches. To the club cabanas, the marijuana alleys, they almost built an entire new wing of the city to accommodate the weight influx.

I’ve stopped trying to fool people. I don’t even wear the bottoms anymore, just the sailor top. Symbolic, I tossed the pants and shoes off the side of the ship on a nightly drunk, some few months ago. Shorts and tube socks, my celebrity still gets me laid with the Dad wardrobe.

Every night I watch my girl cabaret on that stage, under the heavy fluorescents you can see her foundation caked on heavy to cover her pockmarks. It sweats down her cheeks with her ballet streaks, nine other lookalikes can-canning onstage with the same level of paycheck desperation that shipped us all out to sea. In search of nothing, always on a return voyage.

We met non-romantic, more of an obligation. Handshakes with the crew, they must respect my wishes i’m told. On her last legs, supposed to be retired from show business. Stuck in it for years, longed to go back to Vegas where Hell stayed on one street, the rest of the desert remained a family oasis. Instead we set sail on a wooden mass of gluttony, every meal a buffet, every chicken finger a prayer for a quick death from too-clogged arteries. She learned to ignore the beer belly.

At night I listen to the cries of the ocean, a whole universe crashing and dying beneath the rudder. Necklaces of soda six-pack plastics and the nightmeal of oil spill, I make sure to avoid the tilapia when I move down the cafeteria line. I’m on a strict land animal diet, though i’m sure the Soy breading and the Soy dressing and the Soy Soy do about the same damage over time as a refinery explosion. I’m a dietary hypocrite.

I wrote in my Will to be buried at sea, I know i’ll pass into senility on this liner. Sweetheart gets my hat, the sea gets my body. I’ve always dreamed of a viking burial — to send my body out on a rescue canoe, piled on with fireworks and cake candles.

Refrigerate ’til the Fourth of July. Light me up over the coast of Mexico. Give the natives an old fashioned American ash bath.

The Hymn of the Ungrateful Bastard

Woe.

The Unspeakable Torment.

I’ve experienced tragedy, attrition. The failure of dreams. None satisfied me more than the chase and subsequent death of desire.

I had gold, I had silver, I had mountains of men sifting through my tirades. Glory, joy incarnate, a ship of riches, the bow sharped proudly to the day sky.

I’ve dated, finagled, mentally married every Starbucks waitress in the city radius, and yet I cannot help but need another. And another.

A few to rest in my bed. To keep my socks warm. To lick the bowls clean.

Sexual, only about twice a week to preserve my essence. I’ll catch eyes with one the next time I walk to the bathroom, then another when I walk to my mom’s Sedan.

The last one had long curly hair, the one before her had a lick of silver, marvelous like that superhero lady. Superheroine? I try not to sully my chances when I make small talk by the water dispenser.

I put her in my bed, looks nice laying down next to my Anime posters. I don’t watch them, don’t know where they’re from, but they add some culture to the walls. Girls these days like any cartoon that’s vaguely lesbian, hyperviolent. It looks better than the bookshelf I kept of philosophy bullshit.

I’m aroused, then i’m bored. I’ve given in on being intellectually stimulated. Even when I am, all I want is to talk of Barbie dolls. I’m a contrarian at heart, I can’t help that my libido feels the same.

Becoming the envy of all men at my short stature. No pleasure in this game, only violence at the heart. I’ve drank every juice cleanse the online can read at me, seen no truth in the addition of salt to every meal. I could give up the health efforts and still go steady on my charm.

I’ve started to test myself. Barriers self-imposed. I wear tank-tops in public, cut my hair to near baldness, experiment with lumbering walks up and down the streets looking for some dirty talk. Still, i’m spoiled.

Still, I imagine what its like to impregnate. To soil the unity. Maybe one day it’ll keep me full.

Please Don’t Cry In This Burger Restaurant

This might be the worst possible place to do this, if i’m honest.

It’s never a good look when a woman cries in front of a man. Period. I mean, think about me for a second would you? People are going to see this frail, artificial red-head mope-faced banging her fists on a table, the ketchup’s going to get all over your palms and i’m going to get arrested.

When I stopped finding your hair in my vacuum, I knew it was over for us.

You never cared that my only bed was a mat on the floor. That made you a bit special, if i’m honest. All that money I spent on hotel rooms, we were a chaotic romance. The food just got here and i’m afraid that you’re going to dip your elbows in the curly fries, I wanted some.

I saw you intentionally leave behind your barrettes when you’d take them out of your hair. Did you think that i’d return them? I’ve never even given my parents gifts on their birthdays.

You only liked to come over on the Holidays. Our first time after Thanksgiving, remember? You were driving home high after going to the candlelit vigil for those migrant children. A 45 minute drive for you, a mild room-cleanup for me. Next time it was Christmas. I went home early from family with a shitty excuse on New Years for you.

People are starting to pay attention to us. I don’t like for us to be noticed, we were never official enough for that. Please. Don’t grab my hand after touching your meat patty.

I still daydream about the first time I saw you laying down on my floor, coming into the room after a piss break. Turned on your side, staring at nothing. Statuesque, baroque like a painting, all’s perfect except for that Simpsons tattoo on your left deltoid. Why do you think I always turned you on your other side with the lights off?

Don’t use that napkin, I put my gum in there. You made a bad choice wearing eyeliner, eyeshadow today. Sometimes there shouldn’t be a first time for everything.

Give Me A Reason

I used to cry, but that was before I learned how to choke.

Ten minutes to put a leaf bag in some hot water, give people three dollars and an empty store and they gift you your due at the end of a lifetime. Yet, I still wait like I do every other day. I don’t own a kettle at home, wouldn’t need it for anything else. I pray every night that this lesbian barista goes straight for me, she’s got an emo movie tattoo and a wry little smile, I want to swaddle her like she knows she wants to be. I make sure my BlueTooth is blinking every time I hand her the cash.

Last night was the Belting ceremony — I made my next stripe. Night after weeknight of getting my ass fucked into the mat by every flexing bicep was meant to lead somewhere, so i’ve been told. Nobody asks for my origin story, i’m no Superman, but if they’re sitting next to me when they’re putting their shoes back on I can’t help but share. The tale down to a science — sitting in traffic, normal day coming home from my office estate. There’s a left turn coming up, figured I’d make the shortcut. I admit, i’m a fallible human being, I cut off the hunk of shit Sentra that was speeding to make the yellow light. They stopped. They honked. The bald coke fiend driver smacked his horn like his wife and ran screaming out of his car. Punching my hood and calling me fag, telling me that he’ll find where I live and burn my house down. Scared shitless, i’ve never been in a fight before. Every time I got close, the other guy usually realized I was 5’2 and cut me a break. But this is Adult World now, I can’t afford to replace these braces that I was barely able to afford in my middle age.

Signed up for Aikido immediately after the scuffle. All cash upfront, I didn’t ask any questions. I was a man with nothing to lose, and clearly everybody else in the class felt the same way. Almost autistically obsessed the many were, young guys with shaved heads white bandages on their knuckles, death in their eyes with fierce grunts when they punch. It’s hard to make friends when you’re this old if i’m honest, I thought my story would be a lot more relatable.

I’ve got a step-stool resting in my truck bed so that it’s easier for me to get in, i’ve stopped having shame about this years ago. I’m a realtor, and a good one at that, that’s something noone could ever take away from you. I sold houses during the recession, I fought my own war on the shores of Corpus. I had to build a personality from scratch being this small, a sense of humor goes a long way when a pregnant couple is fighting over granite countertops. My face is where I make my money, I tell every guy I spar with so that they don’t scuff my cheeks when they got something to prove. 

I’m on every bus bench in the upper West end, I practiced smiling until I felt my gums bleed.