Spirituality is Not the Right Word

‘uality’s [oo-al-i-tees], speak to me of something plural, a state of mind attaining several [wrong] choices. And to put a spirit in front of an ‘uality’ is like a hasty dynamite stick ready to blow a hole in the side of Jesus. When did Christianity become all about defining mystic association with God and not simply about falling in love with Jesus? Theology is only acceptable when Jesus is apparent in your heart. No floating hearts are looked-for in a sanctuary, unless the charlatans say so. And they have masquerade porticos on with intent of parading selected expressions around; carelessly telling everyone that they have vapor inside they’re eyes. That they see vapor inside the room, and that this vapor is from my Jesus. I don’t see the steam! It’s perhaps because the fog of their obtuse prayer is too thick.

The Perjuries Embellish With Seaborne Raids

Time is a bandit. Always putting you in the position of depletion. It never looks out for your best intrest. -C.L.

Basement Priced Poetry of the Vanguard

I’m full of it; I’m full of sin! How can I get away from this sonnet? This ode to I. It’s like a dim orange street light on an LA boulevard. Light bulbs smolder with no one beneath them; aside from crack dealers and prostitutes desperately abusing themselves for survival. It’s like shout-abuse offered at point blank to blow your head into pieces. Grief spews up after condemnation and condemnation originates from my pocket sized politicians. I vote for no more war. Exfoliate your asphalt jungle oh mind! Send your center into release oh heart! Jesus boasts grace.-C.L.

Orange County is Not Organic

Sidewalks are too hard and the light pollution is too much for the nighttime sky to hold. Its too soaked with everyone’s lonesomeness. And people laze in their faint beds next to their waterlogged fantasies of oceans and seas. Never embracing the audible voice in their interior character that says ‘I want something more’. Those poor humans, they don’t have the courage to sit up and admit that they’re square; ridged on the edges and restrained in form. They just hope that they can wake up and make it through one more day on their calendar. Make it through another freeway, another business convention, another designer latte. Their existence is as thoughtless as their frothy steamed beverage. How else are you supposed to live? Only, Jesus wants to give you a hug.-C.L.