To be free from the darker arts, our
contriving of forms reversely onto the
foreground of natural history.
Shamans and soothsayers gazing
backwards, trading the naked now for
trinkets of lore and laud, we trouble ourselves with
tradition, we glory in our conquests of the lesser then.
If Jesus was anything more than a man, he was a
wolf. Seething into our herd of ailments, his iridescent
eyes grew fixed on the slaughter of the distortions of
dominionists. No wonder we killed him as we
kill him today. We dress him in purple and
crown him with jagged misattributions. He was
predator come to thin the ranks of our diseased
confidences, to strengthen our substance. As with
any whose truth is too real to destroy, he haunts
our dreams and howls to the moons of our deepest
instincts. He has done his bloody work and left
those of us still standing to walk each trail of
faith that leads to the new earth. Let us see
Creation as it is.