A young man walked into a prayer meeting last evening in a black South Carolina church. He sat down next to the preacher for an hour then rose, pulled out a gun, shot the pastor and eight other people dead, and walked out. How much more proof does anyone need that this is the only “god” there is? --
THE GOD OF MELANCHOLY: A RELIGIOUS TREATISE
By Lewis Turco
...he is a rammy, fulsome fellow, a goblin-faced fellow, he smells, he stinks, he belches onion and garlic, how like a dizzard, a fool, an ass he looks, how like a clown he behaves himself! — Burton.
His feet point inward at
90º angles. The world spins
between His big toes. He squats
above it all so that the tallest peaks
just barely miss His ass-
hole. He waits. That's His job,
partly — waiting. And while He waits, things
get better between His thick
toenails, perhaps. The President goes to
China; Muhammad goes
to the mountain, conquers
the ultimate crag, never even
glimpses a hemorrhoid; Dick
puts it to Jane: His wife doesn't suspect
a thing. But at last it's
time. Deep in His bowels,
Melanchole senses the thin movement
of gas. There is a small cramp
beneath His duodenum. A tremor
passes along the San
Andreas Fault. Pressures
build. It is time: There is Agony
in the Cosmic Expression.
Slowly, our nostrils in the blithe air, we
begin to understand
the essence of sulphur,
the quintessence of hopes digested.
Along our valleys, brown fog
seeps out of the hills. China gags, believes
it is the President's
western odor. Boulders
dump Muhamnmad, and Dick's wife finds out.
Were we not blinded, we would
understand Joy; were we without noses,
we would serve no Purpose;
could we but see beyond
our noses, we would relish delight
between the toes, under His
cheek — for our Keeper is smiling; nay, He
is laughing in Relief!
From Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.