Haunted Vessel (a poem)

Thursday, March 20, 2025

God expands beyond us.
And we are artifacts.

My god, you loved me—
I wasn’t ready for that,
nor will they be.

One, two, three,
I don’t give a damn about your economy.

Enterprisal transcends the empire,
the spirit of Jesus, radical love,
wild bear—we’re all terrified.
Let’s go to the zoo, though.

Paid.
I’m an observer.
I saw the wild in that pen,
so I know what it is to be.

I can’t breathe,
and you’re telling me it’s okay—
just give up an hour on Sunday.
Check.
This madness is ridiculous.
We just spent half a million
to see our pastor’s ugly face
magnified on 16-foot screens.

I’m leaning into all criticism.
Curse you and your institution.

I hope to bury you,
to leave people at peace,
free from the ouroboros spirit—
the self-consumption, inside out.

Underwater, I’m dying here.
Coming up to catch breath,
enough to dismantle you.

The economy.
The spirit.
The transactional destroying.
Give back to us—
and erase yourself.

Up, up, and away,
and the hero institution,
replacing the blood machines.

The guess, the hurt, the fear, the broken—
and all we ask is
you bow down to us,
and Jesus.

I’m a haunted vessel,
broken, yet insurrect.
A madman, can’t keep himself—
the Mad Hatter and cold tea.

“Come back next Sunday, please, we need this."

My god, have we forgotten love?
Subtract the suffering,
and all we are left with is:

Go big for yourself,
and to hell with your neighbor.