The reverend's early writings

Piece De Resistance

When the fork eats the spoon,
and the knife stabs the plate,
dinner is over.

Stained Glass

In the wooden silence
genuflecting fornicators
seek pennance and false-toothed
idealists throw grubsteaks on the offering plate

light a candle for the sinners
light a fire

self-pronounced prophet, parable seeking Protestant
preaches his diatomic dogma,
disembowling indescreetly.

supplicate
congragate
the world looks better through stained glass

light a candle for the sinners
set the world on fire

Falsities
Falsities
Falsities, Factualities
All sitting like eager sponges,
soaking up the tertiary realities of life.

Hotel Hallucinogen

Lying in bed contemplating,
tomorrow simply meditating,
I stare into a single empty spot,
and I notice a penetrating of eyes looking up and down and at various odd angles secretly inspecting me; and I feel my stare tugged away from the blank screen in front of my eyes and directed at the eight empty beer cans
forming an unintentional pyramid.

And I close my eyelids to think-
How many hours have passed since I constructe such an
emmaculate edifice of tin?
Or did I create it all?
Was it the watchers?
I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.
But the pyramid has now become a flaming pyre, and the face within is my own.
What is this prophecy that comes to me like a delivery boy,
cold and uncaring of its message, asking for only recognition?
But I will not fall prey to this revelation of irrevalence
I will not recognize this perversion of thought.

I will not.

I hurl my pillow at the infernal grave, as if to save my eyes
from horrific understanding, and I hear the hollow clang
of seven empty beer cans, not eight- was it fate that left one to stand?
Why does this solitary tin soldier
stand in defiance to my pillow talk of annihilation?
Then, for some odd, idiotic, most definitely  enigmatic reason
the can begins to erupt in a barrage of wimpering cries.
Does he lament because his friends and family is gone
or that he has no one with which to spawn? They were gone...

but no, that's not the reason. It is a baby's cry of his mother's treason.
the screaming fear of abandonment. And this wailing, screaming, whining causes
the dead cans to rise and I can't believe my eyes,
that this concession of beverage containers is chanting in a cacophony of shallow rebellion to my Doctrine of Annihilation that was discussed in my Summit of the Pillow (which is now lost among the aluminum-alloy anarchists).

I am afraid, afraid of these cans, these nihilistic rebels. As the one approaches-the baby cryer, I suppose my fear now escalates, constructing a wall around my bed, trying to shut everything out but without a doubt the cryer casually climbs what I thought was a Great Wall not unlike the one in Berlin.

He begins to speak. His words flow criptically from the hole in his head
like funeral music: deep, resonant, and sorrowful. he says to me: "you must surrender your dreams it's just. We sit all day planning for your attendance
and upon your arrival you very impolitely ignore us."

No. He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses, and I fall asleep in the shade.
Asleep in a feild of hyacinth and jade. When I crawl out of my sleep
I get up, my hair is tangled in a mess of golden locks. I enter the kitchen, and go to the icebox. I pull out a single can of beer, and as I begin to drink I hear

The weeping of an abandoned infant.

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