and this marks the end of the stories about god

knife

transcribed from typewriten. written early sunday morning.

he was finally clear in his path. he had done all h could and must wait. the vestments lay in a small pile, drowned in kerosene and ready for the torch that would follow. all of this time, he had wished for something to believe in and now, staring into a flame on the brink of a terrible decision, he still had nothing. he dropped the match into the waiting bundle of nothing and sat transfixed as the flames grew. you never really realize how much your life amounts to until you collect it in a small burnable pile and set fire to it. the realization of it all hit him like a book thrown from the clouds. a heavy book. the thought occured to our hero: my wallet is amongst the pile. fuck. he couldn't do it. he couldn't squelch the flame, even for the highest of man's virtues. he was still doomed to watch. the glow lit up his face and the close observer could see a face beneath the obvious one. the flame melted the outer, revealing an inner being of absolute. anarchy. red. blood. silence. hatred?

"what are you doing here?? get out before..."

"correction: i am simply burning a large pile of everything i've ever known, please, let me be"

"GET THE FUCK OFF M... wait, are you a fucking priest? what are you doing here?"

"god guided my feet to this place and now, he has planted them here"

"god. hmph."

"of course. god. i am a priest."

"i should go back, the others are waiting"

"they already left."

"if you are a priest, you should help me fin..."

"i am a priest"

"what?"

"priest. me. huh?"

"oh right. listen man, i didn't know they were going to do it. the bac..."

"don't worry. i am no longer a priest, see the pile?"

"what?"

the man drew a knife, a small curved thing, worthless against a man of god. the knife entered his abdomen. the pain was incredible. the blood worse. all he saw were orange lights and a cloud hanging with uncertain but certainly ill intentions above a neighborhood 711. he could feel the pain taking over his thoughts. until he was completely elevated to a state of perfect pain. the moment before death. the cloud still hung and became larger, an ochre cloud of indeterminate size and shape. it spiraled into manifesations of what a large ochre cloud should be and than disappeared. but not altogether. it disappeared into another lunatic manifestation of a cloud. worse yet simpler than the once previous cloud. it was all becoming worse. the last moments of your life spent contemplating a fucking puff of smoke. no, definatly a cloud. there was no trancendence, except he seemed to know everything about this ochre entity now swooping over the 711. 8.33. the number. cloud. nothing. black. he lost all hope of returning to normal thought. the cloud was all he was now and all that he could remain. he loved it.

godsperm

root this into the subconscience of genetics gone mad. lost yet purposeful, we are the contradiction that won't allow envelopes to seal. i cant shake the feeling that we are but steak to the cosmos. thick juicy and full of purpose. i bought into all that but i haven't even taken it out of the box, still closed. it really is better that way.

if thats the way it is, than thats the way it is

reading the holy word of god into a tape recorder for 12 hours at a time will make you at once dizzy and forgetful. you'll find yourself blinded by the words and lost to the meaning, the meaning already purposely obscured. oh how the path glistens, ascending and than falling off into a celestial pot of gold. but why bother the ascent or the fall, if the shortest distance is a straight line. why not just hire a band of thugs and go plunder the glowing pot of salvation? transcendent pirates, shown the utmost deference in heaven and hell, but allowed in neither. firmly grounded philosoph warriors, never to be buried or rudely snuffed out in a spurt of flame as the illfated moth.