Pstorm 787

21 April 2014

.

Better to freeze
in the night rain

than stay warm
with a nagging wife.

.

Nightfall: My First Easter Memory

20 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

“See the Bunny?”

.

Nightfall: The Desolation of My Devastation

20 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

The night has fallen,
the brightest days
are pitch black to me;
I am a man without hope.

I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.

Once, I knew God,
but Jesus is just
a distant memory
to me now.

Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.

The words that came
out of her mouth,
the things they said –
all so close to the truth.

I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.

I could not see the lies
until it was too late:
the sweet was sour,
and the sour sweet.

Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.

And when I realized
I had to follow the rules
to pay for my sins –
I left that false god behind.

But, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
And I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.

My heart and my mind
are in chaos my heart
and my mind are in chaos
– the God I knew is gone.

I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.
I know not the Lord.
Now, I know not the Lord.

And I must face
the death of my father
without my Father
I have never been

so alone

.

Grace & Brimstone

20 April 2014

.

~ Published at The Witching Hour,
the Most Hopeless Minutes in History,
on 
Easter Sunday 2014 ~

AN OPEN LETTER TO A LEGALIST

.

I did give serious consideration as to whether or not I ought to address these matters in public or in private, but knowing — as I do — your mastery of self-rationalization, I could not help but conclude a public posting would be best.  You will, no doubt, just dismiss my words as being vindictive, and that, of course, will give you every excuse you need to ignore the warnings cast within these words.  For while it is all but certain my words will simply be skimmed by your blind eyes, experience has proven, and relentlessly so, that if one has suffered the wages born of the best intentions, as I have, then others have endured such horrors as well.  It is for such people that I write, for they are the least of God’s children, not by means of poverty or sickness, nor alcohol and addiction, but by the great sin hypocrisy such as yours has imposed upon them.

While certain details certainly will sound familiar, and perhaps even recognizable to those who have committed such heinous, hypocritical acts, I do think it relevant to reveal that I will not limit this letter to the experiences of just one individual; I actually am discussing several people, all of whom shall remain anonymous except to themselves or, possibly, each other, but I am addressing all collectively and individually, each of whom I have met, and known, in personal contact.  And while this letter is an open text, it is not the known sins that concern me, nor could I care less about the skeletons you’ve kept in the closet, but it is the greatest sins you have committed, the ones that have ravaged my faith, led me to the desolation of my devastation, and have destroyed me, the sins that lurk in the satanic shadows of your hypocrisy; for it is only what you can’t see that will lead you to your fall.

For the sake of the uninitiated reader, let me begin by stating the obvious — I am a sinner, and while that means many different things to many different people, it is from my own perspective that I compose these words, and since I have long ago lost my patience, as well as my taste, for religion — or “relationship,” as you have stated, making the sour sound so sweet — I will make every effort to spare my audience, however large or small, the traditional, sickening interpretation of condemning dogma and damning jargon.  So, by my own small definition, let me state it once more as simply as I can — I fucked up.  And, since I cannot change the dreadful deeds I’ve done, nor undo the atrocious acts I’ve committed, and there are many, I had, ultimately, realized that the best hope I had was Jesus.

So, according to one interpretation, I am a sinner saved by grace, which, I’ve found, so very few people (the ones who call themselves “christians,” that is) actually understand, by this, I mean — entirely and completely.  The Grace Movement, if it can even be called that, has commodified the power of God to the box of popular religious culture.  And, while many are raised to recite Scripture, and even to profess faith, hope, and love, “with all their heart, all their soul, all their strength, and all their mind,” such people scarcely comprehend the true meaning of such precious words; they are too busy pleasing their peers, boasting of having a “good personal relationship with the Lord,” listening to their prestigious pastors, living “good” lives, and, worst of all, trading the truth of God for the lie of legalism that leads them to such disgusting and devastating hypocrisy:  They speak of grace, but spit brimstone.  Their words are sweet, their actions sour.  And action is the fruit of conviction, the proof of the words we profess to believe.

You have professed your faith in Christ your entire life, having been raised in a “good Christian home,” and yet, having experienced your actions firsthand, as a sinner saved by grace myself, I have seen that same admission of faith vanish into thin air time and time again, as you incessantly insisted I pay the penance of exclusion for my sin.  You have spoke of divine mercy, of holy forgiveness, of eternal love — but you condemned me to shame, damned me to exclusion, and took it upon yourself to ordain me to humiliation, all the while either claiming it was “for my own good,” — my “training,” as you put it — sweet-talking your way around your own sour words, and all the while you actually believed, and said as much yourself, that what you were doing what was good and true and just.  You spoke of Christ giving His life as a ransom for sinners, being crucified on The Cross, and being raised from the dead on the third day — but, when you found The Empty Tomb, you made every effort to cast me into The Grave. Christ was crucified so that sinners would be welcome in His Kingdom – not excluded in a “good Christian home.”

Is it not written, “Where sin increased, grace increased all the more” (Romans 5:20)?  And yet, this is true everywhere except in your “good Christian home.”  My sin gave every single one of you the extraordinary opportunity to teach a young girl, if not the entire world, about God’s amazing grace — and every single one of you blew it.  You chose your own rules, and did things your own way, feeding fear a feast of contempt and bitterness, ignoring the greatest truth of Christianity:  that Christ gave His life so that sinners, like me, could be welcome into The Kingdom of Heaven, and yet, I was not welcome in your “good Christian home.”  Of course, were I good, the sacrifice of Christ never would be necessary, but God, being God, knew that giving His Son to save sinners was the only way I could be sanctified.  And since you have professed that much with your mouth, your actions surely would have followed had you actually believed it, for it is what comes out a man that makes him unclean; and my sin gave every single one of you the greatest opportunity to actually live that which you have professed to believe for entire generations — and every single one of you blew it:  you really fucking blew it.

Each of your parents were raised in a Christian home; they raised their children in a Christian home; and you raised your children in a Christian home — and that comes out to about four hundred years of Christianity between three living generations:  and not one of you ever took a stand for the grace of God in Christ.  Not one of you ever said, “If Jesus died for sinners, and we say we believe Jesus died for sinners, and we are sinners ourselves, then why are we excluding a sinner?  What business do we have insisting a sinner saved by grace live in shame?  And what are we doing, demanding a child of God pay a penance when Christ Himself has proclaimed, ‘It is finished’?”  So, perhaps, my sin was your plumb line, the measuring rod by which God has revealed the true nature of your darkened hearts, filled, as they are, with lies so great and a hypocrisy so profound the very thought of such a monumental failure is beyond your comprehension.  You make it all sound so sweet, and you’re actually convinced you believe it, but your words are nothing more than a sour poison to me.

Raised right, you can do no wrong:  not even the sex addict — the “glorified pimp,” as he himself once put it — the man who once perpetuated the slave trade by chauffeuring clients of sex traffickers — not even he ever bothered to take a stand for Christ.  And yet, you’d think such a sinner would understand grace, but instead he chose to exclude me because of my sin; he had the extraordinary opportunity to show the same mercy to me that God has shown to him, but instead he is nothing more than an unmerciful servant, having forced me to live in the shame and humiliation of my exclusion.

This is, of course, the same man who so foolishly lost his temper and assaulted me on the holiest day of the year — Christmas itself.  Having been through the fire before, it does not now, nor has it ever, bothered me that he lost his temper, but what does bother me is him making excuses for what he did.  He never owned his mistake, but instead tried to blame  me — a man half his physical size — and even claimed he himself wasn’t angry, just “animated” (like a cartoon, I guess).  I gracefully extended an olive branch, but, when I returned after six weeks out on the road, and sought to reconcile with that same man, he was too damned busy with his church to bother.  Needless to say, he should have left his gift at the altar.

And to him of whom I speak, I say this:  You knew better, you son of a bitch.  You were there.  You were there the night I took the pills.  You were there the night I myself tried to pay for my sin.  You were there the night I tried to take my own life to spare them all my sin because I knew that if I had lived then what has happened would happen.  And you were there.  You heard me to tell you, but you said you already knew — because of my trembling and dizziness and vomiting. My stomach was in knots for three days.  Now, the time of your lies is past; you are without excuses, you have no more justifications, and your mastery of self-rationalization will be burned away like acid when my vomit testifies against you.

And when I told you, that night, the night I took the pills, that I had finally learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it is not my responsibility to pay for sins because my sins are paid for, and that it was for this reason God has spared my life, that my very existence would be a testimony to His amazing grace, you agreed with me.  You actually agreed with me, but only your mind has memorized the truth; your heart is blind to it.  You got on your moral high horse that night, but when you were challenged by the reality of the race — and had the chance to live that which you have professed to believe — you fell flat and got trampled by your own piety.  Not only that, you — just like the rest of them — ended up excluding and humiliating me.  You, the sex addict, forgiven of so much, and yet, so unwilling to forgive.  What a disappointment.

So, perhaps, after four hundred years of Christianity between three living generations, God has finally had enough.  And maybe, just maybe, He sent me into your lives, for a time — a time now past –, to reveal the dark truths you’ve all kept hidden for so long, for so many years.  Perhaps, my sin really is your plumb line, the measuring rod by which the satanic shadows of your hypocrisy have finally been brought to light in your refusal to practice the grace you preach.  And, perhaps, being raised in a Christian home has made each of a Christian just about as much as growing up a farm would have made you a cow.  You recite Scripture as if Christ is a dress rehearsal, an act you’ve learned to put on because it’s just a part of your culture; it’s not what you’ve chosen, just how you were raised, like the language you speak is a mere accident of birth, and your hypocrisy proves it.

Now, the desolation of my devastation has led me to exile, simply because I do not know who the children of God are anymore, and The God I Once Knew has gotten lost in the mess.  It is for this reason, and many more, I want nothing to do with you “christians”; you can keep the false god of your “good personal relationship with the Lord,” live as “right” as you want, and waste the rest of your breath for the rest of your life praying for me, if you wish — but such a false god can not possibly answer such prayers.  Never have I known such hopelessness, and though God has found me, this is a knowledge I cannot lose:  for the words I have heard from you hypocrites are so similar to The Truth I can no longer distinguish between the sons of vipers and the children of heaven:  “No wonder, since Satan disguises himself as an angel of light” (2 Cor. 11:14 NASB).  And it is such a brilliant disguise none of you can even see it.  Once upon a time, such a thought was inconceivable, even to me, that those who speak so sweetly could still be so sour, but now, having lived the one question I never would ask, I have learned the answer.  And, as a sinner saved by grace, I know –

.

A sinner always has the hope of forgiveness,
but those raised right are never wrong.

.

Nightfall: Cold Warrior

19 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

He hung it on his mantle –
where it stayed until the day he died.

.

Nightfall: Navy Brat

19 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

I am a Navy Brat,
And I miss my Dad.

My father is gone — this time,
I’ll never see him again.

I am an orphan
in my middle age.

I lost every memory
I might have had

with my father
in my childhood

to his Silent Service in
The United States Navy.

He missed my first steps,
my little league games –

And he never even
signed my report card.

At home, the stigma
of Vietnam haunted us.

It was a different time.
And a different war.

My mother was
a single parent

long before the divorce
was ever even final.

She drank to drown
all the everything –

the loneliness, the stigma,
the single-parenthood,

even those who insulted
her dearly beloved husband.

They called him a “tar,”
said he was a “squid.”

A “baby killer.”
And a “child rapist.”

But, my father served
in The Silent Fleet –

my father was a sailor,
a soldier of the sea:

blue nose
spec ops –

above The Circle,
below the ice.

My father mastered chess
at classified depths.

But, he came home
a stranger to his family.

A wife he did not know,
children who knew him not.

My father never taught me
how to ride a bicycle,

throw a fastball,
or hit a home run.

The Navy wanted a commitment.
He gave them a commitment.

He did what he had to do,
but nobody ever told him

what he’d lose
along the way.

My earliest memory
of my mother

is of her bawling
her eyes out,

wailing and screaming,
at the top of her lungs –

“Sixteen years –
and he’s thrown it all away!”

because my earliest memory
of my father is of him

getting on a plane
for his deployment.

It was cold.
It was dark.

And I was crying,
clinging to the fence

as the wind cut
and the plane roared.

Ma had to pry me away
and put me in the car.

We went home.
To an empty house.

At my little league games,
I saw kids with their Dads

And I wondered where
my father was — and why.

I did not know,
until my uncle spoke

at my father’s funeral,
that the sub had hit

the ocean floor
and had taken damage.

Dad was The COB.
It was his responsibility

to choose someone
to crawl through

the tubes and latches
at impossible depths

to assess the damage.
The only way to know

the sub was damaged
was if the man

didn’t make it back.
If the hull was breached,

it was instant death.
So, Dad told The Captain –

“I choose me.”
And he went.

He put his life
on the line

for his Captain
and his crew –

And for America.
He made it home,

but lost the family
he had worked so hard

to support.  And that,
was his greatest sacrifice:

He lived, but lost the life
he wanted to his service.

It was only decades later
that my father understood.

He saw the consequences
of his own courage –

his wife, his daughter,
and his firstborn son

all wanted to drown
with him, so they drank.

I am a hard man.
The toughest of them all.

I saw every one of them –
and I stayed clean and sober.

I endured.  I took the all
the beatings and the bitching.

And now, I am invincible.
You can’t ever hurt me.

photo.PNG

I am the sacrifice
my father made to serve

The United States
of America.

And my heart is as cold
as The Northwest Passage.

But, at classified depths,
I still cling to that fence.

I am a Navy Brat.
And I miss my Dad.

.

Nightfall: Silent Saturday

19 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

Wake Up Dead Man

.

Nightfall: The Body & The Blood

18 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

The same priest who told my father to divorce my mother
was the same priest who gave me my First Communion.

.

And that was how I met God ~

.
as a broken child from a broken home
with a broken heart.

.

Nightfall: The Priest

18 April 2014

.

20140314-012332.jpg

.

“If it really is that bad,
you ought to get a divorce.”

.

Pstorm 786

18 April 2014

.

It is more bearable for a man
to struggle to survive
in a desolate land

than it is for him
to endure the torment
of an angry woman.

.

Pstorm 785

17 April 2014

.

A wise man walks away
from an angry woman,

but a fool endures
the torture of her rage.

.

Pstorm 784

16 April 2014

.

Nobody gives you keys to the kingdom

without knowing exactly what is in the room.

.

Pstorm 783

15 April 2014

.

People who make matters of life and death about “rights” don’t know jack shit.

.

Pstorm 782

14 April 2014

.

A fool draws battle lines,

paving his own path to Hell.

.

Nightfall: 1993

13 April 2014

.

20140327-045457.jpg

.

“If I had it to do over again,
I never would have left your mother.”

.