Soaked In Asbestos

You’re soaked in asbestos, church,
though sin requires flesh to be burned.
And sin we ate, in Eden, in our self search.
For this reason the sword afire is turned,
roasting that wrapped in thorny judgement.

We eat an incarnate Word,
church, now we eat a new kind of meat.
The king had the flames stirred,
but our food wasn’t touched by the heat.
That’s what the furnace in Babylon meant.

So, why all this food and why the eating?
Church, that’s how our very lives are sustained.
While, of course we’re the cause of our bleeding
we’re no longer draped in garments so stained.
It’s our inflammable bread’s blood that was spent.

The Red Banner

Hands raised to brows,
throating lukewarm ally oaths,
singing its anthem,
squinting at the spring leaf
in July's sun.

It flapped bright new green
whimmed by the winds,
finally fading a rich hue,
weighted in tradition.
Proud, it served
what it hung for,
from its high hoist
up on the tree.
But then,
what was that, a blush?
Shame perhaps, for sins
in its nascency?
Never! Far be it!
Green as ever.

Don't you see the reddening
of the leaf hoisted high?
All crimson drenched
fliers will spatter the ground,
turn brown and be crushed to dirt.

A Walking Man Surely Knows

a walking man surely knows
the strength of wind
whether at his back
or going in

A Sonnet About The Internet

As Adam from blest first fell forth the sweeping internet,
A race to match man’s corruption ensued upon the switch,
Yet still I share fate’s perspective, a dream is dreamt in which,
Our toes in waters deep’ning, we’ve barely begun to wet.

Thus far, we’ve seen it displace some sluggards where they were set,
Forge harm upon our common rooms, (with fur and whisker kitsch)
Oh, some have tried to tame its lust, and some have gotten rich,
But like the Mountain of the House, we’ve seen near naught as yet.

While gardens of the age still grow, to whittle down our hours,
To fit the pantheon into pocket and pocketbook,
The Master’s web has Gospel in it’s wire and protocol.
While market ad and market fist comprise the earthly pow’rs,
And platforms breathe a single tongue like Satan’s tallest rook,
Fails not my wond’ring at the thought, “My God redeems it all!”