An Elixir of Iron (Why to Get rid Of Fire-arms and Take Up the Blade)

CPI security screeches its alarm as a man, dressed in night, bursts through the full length window at the front of the house. His body black against the night, a shadow, he pauses for a moment as he is spotlighted by the half-moon of early October. Middle Eastern brown eyes glinting, with the 9 millimeter handgun pulsing intermittently, adrenaline filled and imminent, a thick hand flicks on a flashlight. At eye level it moves professionally, an extension of his very own vision, as he flits through the territory of the unfamiliar house like a hornet, deranged, wanting for something but not knowing yet what that will be. And he would get it, whatever it was. Deceptively, down the long, narrow corridor of the hallway he drips, like the wet mold of the aging house, he creeps, cautiously, but without anxiety. His left hand firmly grips the pistol, his right squeezing it to the flashlight almost as a single weapon. The squeak of bedroom slippers softly penetrates his heightened senses amidst the awoken and blaring darkness. The intruder halts. He was not alone. Bedroom slippers and flannel pants on, the wood cut man, grabs the 22. in his drawer, with flexed arms and heightened senses he opens the door with his gun. It clicks into place. He tiptoes into the hallway and gunfire erupts; rushed shots flying from the perpetrator. The muscular man spins in behind the door frame, firing a series of hopeless amateurish shots which explode into the walls in the home of his childhood. Drowning breaths ventilate him as he makes himself a statue, in the midst of frenzied gunfire and Arabic gibberish. The hornet moves in, slinking down the enduring walls. Two feet away and he is noted, his presence met with a desperate spin from the protection of the doorframe. Two barrels on two foreheads lay, warm from firing, but evoking, in the impaling words of Fever 1973, the cold and ‘yellow scent of death’. Two pairs of brown eyes meet, neither innocent, though neither entirely guilty, both, scared. Each sees themself in the eyes of their opponent, forced to bear cause for the casualties so near and so close. Looking into their eyes, passion is eliminated, each person stands shakily wielding the irrevocable power of death in their hands, and knowing the effect of this tragedy, they wait. Silent, deathlike seconds rumble by. No shot is fired. Death having been evaded, fears raged, shock intoxicated, and lives changed, but no shot is fired. The power of death in two capable hands extinguished by selfishness, brought on by efficiency, and no shot is fired. Idle threats and maxed out advancement; still, no shot is fired.

            In a world of consumerism, invention has met its worst adversary to date: ease. The path of automatic weapons crawls slowly towards innovation, just as cell phones which constantly ‘one-up’ the last just so much as to market – but not so far as to make the next model difficult to create. This is clearly seen in the new “Buy Back” program from Best Buy, which helps alleviate the burden of obsolete technologies. The difference in the iPhone 4 and the iPhone 3 is a few megapixels in a camera and some fancy volume buttons. Modern innovation improves ever so slightly, but doesn’t change. Invention moves along on the edges of its asymptotic function, making no drastic gains, but rather lurching along almost uniformly like a hoard of zombies to a dull and boring infinity. Benefitting however, is the equilibrium which is created among automatic and semi-automatic weapons, where cheap weapons are minimally different than their shiny newer brothers. Thus, we sit drooling, mouths agape and full of popcorn and watch scenes like the one described above, as they play out, often to the same boring ending of stalemate. Where then is justice left, if not abandoned by men so weak and spineless that they consider their own life so much of a treasure that justice rides in the backseat? Justice must supersede pacifism. Men must answer in a manner worthy of their crime. Peace will only be achieved by perfection. Grudges are the label of ignored injustices, and not peace. Men fear death more than they long to achieve justice just as the homeowner in the story above. Gang violence exists because injustice is constant and grudges fester in their hearts. To invert Cicero’s argument, ‘A just war is better than an unjust peace’. The “Just War Theory” and its offshoots provide evidence to the fact that just war exists, and thus it employs the logical corollary that just wars can be fought and that just wars produce a justice more valuable than a corrupted peace. One of the most important writers in response to the “Just War Theory”, Michael Walzer, promoted a new argument in relation to war, relating devastating weapons such as nuclear warheads alter war so much that our morality becomes inevitably confused—and hence just war theories—become redundant. Thus, this serves to foundation my argument that a world possessing weapons of such mass destruction inhibits justice, and that nuclear warfare brings the weak and the strong to the same playing field, and that; therefore, if we should go back to a the blade and the arrow, this inhibiting of justice would invariably diminish.

In the words of Lawrence Freedman, in his book The Evolution of Nuclear Warfare, “The Russians charged the Chinese with a lack of realism about the effects of nuclear war, pointing out that ‘the atom bomb does not adhere to class principle’. Peking’s unfailing optimism on the inevitable outcome of the politically righteous was mocked: ‘It is absurd to suppose that a war of attrition will, as it were, favor the weak and harm the strong. In such a war, the weak will be exhausted before the strong.’…A bizarre anecdote from Khrushchev’s memoirs sums up the Soviet leader’s view on the relevance of People’s War in a nuclear age… Comrade Mao Tse-Tung, nowadays that sort of thinking is out of date. You can no longer calculate the alignment of forces on the basis of who has the most men. Back in the days where disputes were settled with fists or bayonets, it meant something who had the most men and the most bayonets on each side. Then when the machine gun appeared, the side with more troops no longer necessarily had the advantage. And now with the atomic bomb, the number of troops makes practically no difference in the alignment of real power and the outcome of a war. The more troops on a side the more bomb fodder.’”

            In a world where scores of nuclear warheads gird the earth like a laser security system, and simply the government stands between us and the destruction of our world, we can do nothing but wait. Justice is put on a shelf because fear cloaks us all. It is my opinion and that of a handful of other worried Americans that politics have gotten so hidden from the public eye that wars are not near what we perceive them to be and that often wars and potential wars degrade into nuclear level threat matches, but who has acted on such idle threats. Only 2 of such weapons have been used (this being the American Government’s bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki) and having been given the opportunity to analyze the destructive power of this weapon for more than 70 years now, and living in a world where everyone who’s anyone has one, still no shot is fired. Now, I am obliged to promote that—if we were, as a community of people in this sensitive world, to reject these weapons, keep them of course, locked up just in case, but to disarm the world of all of its bullet firing demolition machines, and in the hands of every man give a sword and a spear, in order to allow for progress.

One might say that if we keep them—even locked up—that we would be in no different situation than we are at present, but to clarify what I mean by locked up, I mean to say that an organization be created comprised of members of each nuclear capable country completely dissociated from the government that would be in control of simply monitoring the weapons in the case that a country creates more, or refuses to hand some over and later threatens another nation; then and only then, will they be given the authority to unlock the nuclear weapons to protect the threatened nation. This type of Non-Governmental Organization is necessary so that there are no more variables in this equation of worldwide justice.

 We have outstretched our growth capacity in weapons technology to a standstill of , but it is a time for justice—war must go on, therefore it is necessarily vital to the preservation of justice and to the freedom and rights of the individuals of the world that we technologically regress in order to morally progress. Though this solution seems impractical, it is possible if each government stood up in the strength it possesses to legislate the ridding of all automatic and bullet firing weapons and introduce to the economy and to the masses arms of steel and iron. You might say take offense to such a display of governmental power, and, as a proponent of liberty and of small government I would certainly agree, but in order to keep the balance between government and people in check the government must use its power over those not willing to give up there firearms so that the second amendment right to bear arms can be changed to suit the blade and not the explosive. The path to total fire arm disarmament begins with you, one man at a time ‘til the whole world recognizes this need and each man takes steps, so that as a community of this world we move forward in justice, unbounded by the stalemates of equalizing fire-arms.

            If such a feat as this would happen the results would be infinitely successful. The effects would include, but are not even limited to things such as an increase in innovation, a return to a sort of utopian pseudo-stasis, the renaissance of justice, educational tools producing strong minds of both men and women, training that would produce a sort of be fit or be in danger society, and the employment spikes for blacksmiths, armorers, miners, trainers, and the elimination of such present, strong international dependencies. We live in a free market chained by debt and by eliminating a majority of expensive technology, long and drawn out wars, and specialized training, we can alleviate some of the economic and international burdens pressed so firmly upon us.

            These things would serve, invariably, to bring the world into a Spartan state for progress; the epitome of justice. The world would draw freely from this elixir of iron and steel, and transform, by the power of its simplicity into the glory of justice, where mercy means something, where training is necessary, where the world stands together to pursue righteousness knowing the sharpened point at the end of their consequential stick, where all men take freely from this bastion of iron, and the world moves forward again, in a new direction, knowing our past and devoted to conquering it. Where everyone bears the arm of justice, responsibility is serious, grace is graceful, chivalry is stable and universal, and the world walks justly and humbly;

There I, long to be.

           

Western Republican Debate Analysis (A hash tagged enumeration if grievances)

It seems quite, quite possible that one could assess each of the candidates; their philosophies, their personalities, their level of experience, simply on the way in which they walked (waddled or strutted as the case may be) to their podiums to introduce themselves in their brief 10 second window.

Bachman attempted to glide onto the stage in the costume of a swan burning in the stage lights, her smile being stretched across her face like she was getting braces taken off, waving a plastic wrapped hand to the crowd like a girl practicing to be Cinderella at Disney.

Gingrich in that wonderful penguin-esque mode of transport waddled on to the stage on a seemingly knee-less leg structure. His pasty white skin puffed out of his stiff shirt and knowledge rested, hoisted behind those squinty eyes and confidence sat like tobacco under his grinning lip. Like a 90 year old he shone in whiteness, with that perfect political parted haircut for his white toupee-ish hair.

Perry strode that stage shoulders back feet separated, chest out, in position (and probably willing) to do some squats. His stiff starched shirt and wide tailored suit made him look like a refrigerator (and one with a rather frustrating Texan accent, thick with pride from his shiny shoes to the mice crouched on his head.

Romney waltzed 7 feet tall straight out of a magazine for perfect presidential image, waving, appropriately awkward as all politicians are.

Cain, with an upward hail and Tarzan chest bump saunters to his podium, politically innocent eyes hiding behind the glasses of business wealth, and sincere African-American passion and charm; his gold tie in stark contrast to the stereotypical presidential red.

Paul, like a murine, scampered on stage with an almost adorable two hand wave shimmy shindig; crooked smile crooked tie, eyes with opinions (wisdom) to impart.

And Santorum…

That whiny little teenager snarled from eyebrow to eyebrow with that gargantuan nose half smiling inwardly clapping for himself for his brilliance sitting on his whopping 1% of the vote.

The Republican nominees, ladies and gentlemen…

They introduced themselves and from the short, witty, passion of Ron Paul’s “I am the champion of Liberty” to Bachman’s horrendous “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” ‘joke’; Each candidate tried to gain a personal advantage and edge (except perhaps Newt Gingrich who seemed to be comfortable standing quietly and every once in a while jargoning about why the others plans did not work)

And what follows are the list of my grievances toward this body of 7 and this set-up for the primary. It is hopefully quite exhaustive.

                Do Not’s when running a primary (A hash-tagged twitter enumeration)

®     Let the Candidates have introductions like superstars and then not give them a tunnel to run through it’s one or the other. #andnoowwwyourepublicannominees!!

®     Let Michelle Bachman wear white and her hair back (she’s hard to find) #Casperisthatyou?

®     Let the candidates have stands to make them look taller (The fact that Michelle Bachman is 5’2” is a crucial factor, if she still gets measured at roller-coasters why should she run the big roller-coaster of the nation) #merrygoround’sthatway

®     Let ‘Phantom’ talk through the star spangled banner #ifhewasblackit’dbecalledrap

®     Let so many white old men in the same building without even a wee bit of diversity #hellothereeggcarton

®     Let unintelligible anxious flooded audience members stutter through half-memorized questions written over their heads #t-t-t-t-t-todayyjunior

®     Let Ron Paul and Gingrich put their hand over their own heart (no shame in asking for assistance #deadfish

Do Not’s for Santorum

®     Interrupt Romney (at least stop when they began to boo you know Romney has zingers) #bambamturkeyandham

®     Talk through your nose you sound like a 12 year old kid with a sinus infection #wrongsenseorganbuddy

®     Stand silently for 45 minutes #speakupbigguy

®     Get a catchy plan #doyouevenhaveaplan

®     Stop bringing up evidence which can be repudiated with a no that’s not true #seriouslyithasn’tworkedonce

Do Not’s for Paul

®     Talk about immigration or say the words Latino or penalized #itsoundsretarded

®     Move your eyebrows so much giving you the appearance of a wild eyed maniac #youdon’tneedadditionalhelppeoplealreadybelievethat

®     Don’t Stop preaching it #you’reastud

Do Not’s for Cain

®     Talk about fruit #nothatsanapple

®     Keep telling me to do the math myself #Don’tyouknowAmericansarelazy

®     Lose that awesome passion #9-9-9,andthatvoice..for.the.win

Do Not’s for Romney

®     Design plans with more points than some American’s can count #59?comeon

®     Hire lawn companies #thereboundtohaveillegals #youonlyseegrassinMassachusettsfor2months #ithinkyoucanhandleit

Do Not’s for Perry

®     Talk like George Bush #heisn’tsopopular

®     Contradict yourself in the same sentence #pickone

®     Talk about your strength against Immigration #Texashablaespanol

®     Argue with Romney #yougotdestroyed

®     Get testy #Romney’llcallyouonit

®     Address Herman Cain as Brother #notyourbrotherhood

®     Talk like you have already won #scoreboard

®     Keep talking #presidentgottolisten

®     Shake your head in unbelief when you get called out #don’tinterrupt..rude

®     Talk about Texas #itisn’tthatgreat

Do Not’s for Gingrich

®     Abandon all uses of personality #zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

®     Skip the vowels in words #tshrdtndrstnd

®     Assume people know what your plan is #itwasmadebeforeiwasborn

®     Divorce another woman #three’scompany

®     Stand silently for 20 minutes #yourprettyforgettable

Do Not’s for Michelle Bachman

                This list would be far too long but to mention a few; study your geography Libya is in Africa dummy, what in God’s name is the second fence for and how does two fences help decrease building costs and time? Wear a different color suit and let your hair down, no one wants a tight-knit efeminated woman, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, but be like Palin. Lastly, talk with your husband about the gay thing its bringing you down, oh and I forgot to ask where you find it Biblically appropriate for a woman to be in charge of a nation (just curious) and address your questions and responses to candidates not Anderson he didn’t even call on you, that jerk! Anderson? Anderson? Anderson? #youdon’thavetoraiseyourhand

These are my grievances, and my list of positives is equal in length but will be summarized in the interest of saving paper with the following: Santorum nailed the religious tolerance question; Paul has brilliant ideas that strike home with me and a lot of the crowd and though they probably wouldn’t pass Congress, he still finds favor with my political leanings; Cain has a lot of good items in the 9-9-9 plan he just couldn’t explain it, his fruit analogy was correct but he lacks communication. Additionally, his business experience would seem to lend him better equipped at job giving. Romney whipped Cain, Santorum, and Perry and firmly kept his lead atop the Republican polls, Perry understood that a fence is not in our best interest but not much else, Gingrich logically assessed, evaluated and commented on the other candidates plans shining in his experience, intelligence, wisdom, and stature, proving himself good for governing though quite abysmal at campaigning. And Bachman didn’t do too much positively in my mind though I do agree with her flat tax plan and though not in so far as much as I do with Paul, hers holds more realistic potential. She also accurately stated the real problem in America was unemployment though I have doubts she could be much help in alleviating that burden.

As a champion in my mind for the cause of liberty I conclude this slightly satirical but hopefull infallibly accurate assessment of the Western Republican Primary of October 18 2011.

THE END

Purple Cow Parodies

I’ve never worn my hair so short

It’s prickled shortened stead

I’ve never let it be cut off

My hair stays on my head

I’ve never been to heaven

Nor can be sure that it exists

But I’ll live with hope and joy

For what fun is “he subsists”

I’ve never been without my pants

Nor would ever want to be

But I can say I intend not tell

What this meaning is of free

Ode to Goat flesh

I’ve never been aboard a boat

Nor swam the gator ridden moat

Nor drunk so much my eyes did float

Nor had the pleasure of eating goat

Nor ever had a bag to tote

I’ve never gotten to taste a goat

Nor had the privilege as to vote

Nor been without a winter coat

Nor received a lovey-dovey note

Ay—if only I could eat a goat

Retorn: 1 chapter more or less of a novel idea gone wayside

I would love your comments if you care to read it.

Jason struggled through the busy streets of Miami’s palm tree dotted high risers, as one might struggle through a jungle, well overgrown by brush. His steps were unsynchronized though not quite awkward, almost on top of each other as he stepped over the coffee spills that seemed to decorate the cement. His stark-white v-neck T-shirt and pale ripped blue jeans stifled his constrained body compared to the glorified threads which had days before raimented him in celestial gold.

 A servant in the kingdom of heaven, his real name, only pronounceable by the Most High, was now shortened to an attractive but far too simple name for the work he engaged. “Healer”. On earth it is the man who defines the name but in Heaven it is the name which defines the person, and Christ’s name for us accurately describes us, our life, our choices, our sins, and our grace. He was a guardian angel, a member in The Kings royal army, now shrunk to this miniature ballistic human form of the sons of Adam, but his work was too important to be over-run by his pride (a feeling innately foreign to most men). As many men feel they’ve discerned from the Holy Scriptures of the Almighty One, God, alone determines the actions of tempters and deceivers. In the same way he determines the actions of protectors, just as he did that fateful day 2000 years before, when nails were driven through the flesh of the Son of God now the Son of God and Man, and as the Angels furied about heaven’s glorious realms trying to break free and with the touch of their hand wipe clean the slate of human iniquity and all of its sadistic debauchery, but Elyon would not permit it. Love so amazing, yet so agonizing to those who saw the meaning. Cries from one pastor however had been heard.

                Dr. Elijah Prince III, from Zion Grace Baptist Church in Miami, Florida lifts up a silent prayer, alone in his home, or so he thinks, praying that the Lord would show him what he cannot see, the white lies and frivolous sins that interweave everyday life, that the modern man has grown so talented at justifying. He prays alone, face flat on his well worn ivory sheets, with the beautiful but incredibly uncomfortable wallpaper graphiqued comforter itching at his neck, still on the bed three weeks after Ms. Prince walked out: Satan’s subliminal message to shut his mouth up, that his miserable soul was not worth the time of day in that glorious Court. As Prince finishes his thoughts, they grow intermixed with guilt and conviction over previous transgressions, of his wife, his ministry, his finances. He rabbit trails himself asleep now assuring to himself that it was a foolish waste of time.

                The scary thing about Lucifer and all of his demons is that they know the language of deception as well as that of conviction, and wielding both swords they hold what seems to be the earthly advantage. However, The Almighty one wields only the sword of the spirit and the gospel of truth. And with the shield of faith he blocks his enemies’ attacks, and as the dual wielding amateur thrashes about in muddled frenzy he loses his advantage and thus, despite being down a sword, absolute truth wielded by the Lord of All dispels the attacks of the ruler of the dark world. Just as Elijah was convicted of his sins during his prayer, it inevitably led to its end and to guilt. Guilt; a confusing sin, it is not of God but of the devil. Guilt can only occur on someone who is still in chains. A truly free man can feel no guilt save the eternal admiration and thankfulness for grace and mercy undeserved. As Elijah would see however, this prayer, not his, but, the Great interceder who went to the Father for him, moaning on his behalf, would have an everlasting impact on many, and especially himself. This half-prayed prayer of Elijah’s was lackadaisical, interrupted, but nevertheless precious to the Intercessor and what was half prayed was wholly desired, and out of that, the Lord would deliver. So, Jason came down, to the earthly realm, as a messenger, like Nathan to David, to give an eternal and unbiased non introspective perspective to the life of Mr. Prince, and invariably, the lives of many others. One cannot know of himself truly when he tells himself who he is, but only can he begin to understand of himself truly when another, one with greater power and authority, tells him who he is. Or often more importantly who he is not.

                He knew this would be painful, as no man in this day believes in angels, especially not ones that don’t shine or have wings and ride on the back of a Harley chopper. The arrogance of man is truly remarkable as for one who seems to be on top he often knows nothing of what he stands on. Jason went to pray as he often did, though this time was different as he looked on the world in myopia, rather than the planetarium-esque window of the Glorious Realm. He went beside a tall swaying palm, with its bright green leaves reminiscent of the summer season about to come to a subtle end. He blocked out the tall steel buildings that covered the once beautiful landscape and with eyes closed as was not his custom but necessary under the Miami sun, he raised his head toward the sky looking up rather than at the throne toward the Creator of all. He started first with thanksgiving, entering the courts of the Lord as in Psalm 100,

 “I will enter his gates with thanksgiving in my heart, I will enter his courts with praise.”

By means of the recitation of Psalm 117, praising God, extolling Him above all other things and thanking Him and praising him for his divinity.

“Praise the LORD, all you nations;
   extol him, all you peoples.
For great is his love toward us,
   and the faithfulness of the LORD endures forever.

 Hallelu Yah!”

He then prayed for graciousness, understanding, and communication, he prayed for the ears of Elijah to be open, for his heart to be ready to soak in the realities of constant and original sin, and for himself and Elijah that they might each be more than equipped to face the battles that were sure to arise, that honor and victory would always be on their side.

                As he finished his prayer he came back into a world not his own and opens his eyes only to see the smirking stares of the locals and tourists who walked by slowly to gawk at the public prayer or to shield the eyes of their children as if public expressions of faith must always be for attention, money, and could never be of Christ. And so his work would begin. The attacks that would face him here would try him to his core. He could not do this alone.

                7:30 in the morning and Elijah rolls out of his well-raimented bed to the smell of dark roast brewing in the kitchen courtesy of last night’s preparations and an automatic coffee maker. His enormous size 13 feet slide into their wool slippers completing his stylish outfit of periwinkle striped pajama bottoms and a well stained more tan than white tank top, with a comfortable, even toasty flair. His well built black skin formed crevices in his shirt many men work out for years to attain. He puts on his glasses whose prescription was now years overdue, but he wasn’t ready to start poking contacts at his eye yet, not on a Tuesday. He worked about 4 days a week Sunday: preaching, Monday: reviewing what he just preached and coming up with next week’s topic, and Friday and Saturday: writing his sermon. Well only for the past three weeks. Before his wife Alicia left with 2 year old Destiny, he had worked Thursday and Friday so he could spend one day with his daughter. He would soon get that chance again, but as the court would have it, Alicia kept Destiny away from her father until a Court order of Guardianship could be reached. 2 more weeks until he would have to see her again. What had he done wrong? Maybe he could pay more attention to her, or take her out more, but he wasn’t about to start changing his “of the people, for the people” mentality which allowed him pretty much free reign over all of the seedy areas this city had to offer. It seemed like a good justification, it made him, for one, a well-loved and immensely motivational preacher, but was he having too much fun in the process, was it for him or for others? How dare she intrude on his “work”! He thought this was for others, but in either case it was no cause for her to run out… at least not the way she did. He thought for a little while longer, but gave up trying and ended up coming to the “realization” she was a selfish lunatic, and he could do nothing to stop what happened. He came back to reality incredibly quickly as one who has these ethereal moments often. He lathered syrup all over his slightly burnt Eggo waffles and gulped them down as if he hadn’t eaten in a month; truth was he hate like a pig, always, eating any scraps, any leftovers, plus his own meal. It was a miracle he stayed in the shape he was in.

                Jason stands 200 feet from the Prince residence, an outwardly humble abode; a light blue one story home with that bark looking exterior accented by dark, ocean blue shutters. It sat atop 3 rows of steel gray cinderblocks about 700 feet from the shore. It was a deceiving looking home, much nicer and much more expensive than it looked, on prime property. It was a deep home, well dressed, and neat, insinuating, that the interior would be clean cut if not immaculate. It wasn’t a preacher’s home and everyone who knew the Prince’s knew that, but no one dared challenge the integrity of the pastor. No one, that is until today, August 12^th, 2011. Lives would soon change, many, never to be the same, as Jason’s steps, still awkward feeling sauntered his 6 foot 4 human body to the off white homey front door. He stepped up onto the narrow hand crafted white porch standing now on the gold and black “Welcome” mat his hand in a fist ready to knock.

The whole realm of glory turned their eyes to this place to watch. This would be no small task, nor would it be minute in results, good or bad. It was rare an angel would reveal himself in these times. Though time seemed to begin to draw near to His return. The souls of those present were ever important in the kingdom of God. In hard times, God must reveal himself in Special Revelation to his elect.

3 hard and distinctive knocks penetrate the home of the unsuspecting Prince. The echo’s shock vibrated the acoustics of the house almost making Elijah spill his coffee. Their seemed a demanding and compelling tone. Besides who knocks at such an hour. He had to go, but he had just gotten comfortable. Its at least worth a look I guess, he thought to himself as he slowly got out of his plush arm chair pretending to no audience that it pained his old bones to do so. He disgustingly wipes any syrup from his mouth with his forearm, immediately feeling its stickiness and regretting it, he rubs it on his well-stained shirt. Embarrassed at the result he puts on his ‘Blue spectrum plaid’ bathrobe and wraps around some of the biggest stains. He creaks the wide wood slats of the floor starting to get warped from the heavy salt water wear.

 Jason waits.

Elijah unhinges the well rusted brass chain and bar that locked the door securely from the beach bums sure to try a break in. he stares through the miniscule, edge gilded peephole to the well tanned perfect skinned man who stood on his front porch almost glowing in the sun, his t shirt burning his eye. He wasn’t wearing a suit, so it didn’t appear to be a Jehovah’s Witness, who despite being a pastor, Elijah still left stranded, unsaved on his doorsteps, he couldn’t deal with all that faith, it intimidated him that incorrect faith could come so seemingly secure and sincere. He passed over them like the homeless man who you think by not looking at you did a better service than looking at than turning away. The man’s golden blond hair curled up at the ends right below his ears, and down almost to his shoulders, but it seemed well groomed, not like a beggars. Elijah, having now completed his in depth, skin deep study through the safety of his peephole, turned the brass door knob counter clock wise opening up the door for a stranger, not the swinging opening of a good friend, but the “May I help you” opening of a slightly annoyed but polite stranger. The door creaked a little bit from years of salty wet winds blown with sand.

Jason saw the face of Elijah, his caring blue eyes meeting the dark brown of Elijah’s, his smile so rich, Elijah feels a little uncomfortable. His eyes so genuine they fleck with perfection. He opens his voluptuous lips to stutter a curt greeting and a “What can I do for you”, which didn’t come out as hospitably cheery as he had hoped.

“May I come in?” Jason says, confidently with an ever so slight southern accent seeping through his deep bass voice, still smiling even in his speech, dimples unwavering. There was something about the man at the door; his height, his voice, his beauty which even Elijah’s alpha man personality couldn’t avoid, but nevertheless perplexed him and tried his not quite so suppressed homophobic “fagots go to hell” tendencies. His voice was deep and powerful, but somehow maintained the joy and happiness of a young child. Something about the man, was undeniably heavenly, but yet he was so real and so on earth as well. Whatever the reason, most likely a conglomeration of all of these, Elijah let the stranger inside, opening the door more, trying to maintain the don’t cross me mentality he thought he had while behind his peephole; only opening the door enough to let him squeeze in. He closed the door behind him fighting the unseasonably mild ocean breeze with a quick victory.

“Have a seat where you like”, Elijah said almost too nervously, his voice trailing ever higher at the end, before cracking back, to his embarrassment, to its original state.

“Coffee?” Elijah said entertaining this beautiful nobody, as the stranger humbly chose surprisingly, the uncomfortable wooden dinner chair as he spun it around to face the lazy boy chair he seemed to know Elijah would go toward. He no longer operated from under his own system of thought but rather another, a sort of subliminal alter ego, functioned as Elijah, his cold exterior of raw masculinity was just a shell to the pupil he was slowly transforming into. His mind was a sponge as Jason told him who he was, and what he had come to do. Elijah was struck with fear before appreciation. He felt scared of the tangibility of a ‘man’ who had known every thought in his head. The deepest darkest poles of his brain full of lust, greed, and selfish pride. His mind tried frantically to block the parts of his mind and heart he felt ashamed of. More guilt. More shame. These were Satan’s last ditch efforts at blockading the brain of Mr. Prince. But the down to earth, yet altogether magnificent golden glory which emitted from Jason broke through these quickly and maladroitly built walls. In trying to hide this shame Elijah reminisced on many of his billions of iniquities, knowing that he couldn’t hide them from this angel, but still with little faith would not merely submit to this, and so he tried to push things into the back of his mind out of reach from the presence in the room he misconstrued as scrying. However as the placebo effect’s power of suggestion holds true, the repression of such things in his mind inevitably led to the reliving of these debaucheries. He sat quietly taking in the things of Jason, each of the truths he was being told about his life, about his motives, about the prayer he had prayed so scantily prayed the night before. He wanted to protest to some of the motives he was being ‘accused’ of having, but the source held no accusations, merely acknowledgements, his words were not of judgment, but rather a tongue of knowledge and hope, and this perfect form of communication, combined with the faint-worthy and virtually unbelievable realization of entertaining an angel in the 21^st century. He couldn’t speak, he felt as if he was nodding along, but the profuse cool sweat beading down his forehead from his short fade promulgated that perhaps he had no control of anything. Despite this out of body experience however, he felt as though he was taking in what Jason was saying.

“What you feel my friend is not uncommon for a son of Adam; that fear and confusion at the tip of your tongue joined with the beautiful realization that in fact on some level the things you believed are true. Many of your kind feel this way, the problem with this modern Christian “religion”, is that you want to be right about Christianity for the sole sake of being right, rather than truly understanding the love and sacrifice of that great day thousands of years ago. You fear being wrong so you live freely, but in this you jointly fear being right, for now you must answer for your lack of faith and the iniquities in result.”

Elijah cleared his throat as awkward and nervous as a person of his strength and confident and distinct bone structure can look. His mouth filled up with a tasteless saliva and he swallowed hard a few times, not disagreeing with what Jason said, but not entirely ready to accept everything quite yet. He would need some time. But he felt the amount was not under his control. The free will it appeared he had had was quickly fading into the air as he reached desperately for it like a madman trying to grab smoke with a fist.

Jason told him he would be back in the morning. There was a long pause as Elijah caught up to him in the conversation. He stumbled across a few words similar to thank you and see you then but never quite got to it. He walked Jason out to the door almost servile like, closing it behind him he thought about where on earth, this angel was going to stay tonight, but his selfishness recaptured him and he justified that God wouldn’t let his angel stay without a home. He closed the door slowly behind him as Jason faded into the mist of one of the sunny days which seemed to own Florida this time of the year. The door slammed rather loudly in the sudden gust of wind and he was once more alone, on a Tuesday. He looked down at his apparel now ashamed at how hideously unprepared and unprofessional he looked.       The warm smell of his coffee revisited him as he returned to his fantastically comfortable recliner kicking back up the miniature ottoman, sipping his dark roast he turned on the TV, hoping that something would rid him from the shame and confusion which now enveloped him. He turned on his dish TV scanning the news for the scoundrels of the world who always had a way of boosting his own ego. He was in luck, 2 homicides the night before at a local club. A local boy had gone crazy murdering his parents and siblings before taking his own life. 1 girl just over 16 was missing, with a rape case probable. These villains were the worst of the worst to many, so the average of the world could remain average, not trying to hard at being exceptional, always knowing the many below them made their own selves look spectacular. And thus the world was somewhat back to as it should be. It’s ladder of success regained its lower rungs and Elijah nearly recaptured his “good Christian preacher” echelon.

 Elijah’s mind drifted away from his early morning meeting and he fell once again asleep unaware of how tired the thoughts of his morning had made him. It is incredible how little one uses the brain in everyday life. Especially in the morning. Especially on a Tuesday. He had forgotten one of the biggest miracles of the modern age, one in his own home. Just as the disciples fell asleep in Gethsemane, so he fell asleep to the words of Jason (and the Spirit of God which spoke through him), and for at least one more day he would refuse to compromise. He slept dreamlessly well through his normal lunch time almost to dinner. He awoke somewhat thinking the angel was just a dream as often tragedies dawns can warrant, though on another level he seemed cognizant of its reality, though quickly deciding that he would not spoil his last day of fun. He headed for the Golden Flamingo, one of Miami’s most prestigious inner city clubs, and the home of many, his fantasies. Tonight was about Elijah, tomorrow could be about the angel, plus getting over the hangover sure to await him.

Wednesday morning came far too soon for Elijah. His far less than sobered mind throbbed against his blood shot eyes, dried out from staring at more than one of the fine dancers gracing his shamefully ready lap in the smoky pink and yellow spotlighted room, dim enough to make everyone look sexy. It worked for a little while, but 4 beers in on an unprepared liver and he would not be decent the following morning. He had always kept the philosophy of living like the people but making point to avoid, at least outwardly, their sins, feigning his personal dominance over temptation. However, his thought life took an enormous hit. One he did not yet fully understand. The actions he took to related to his congregation on their level had profound effects on a handful of their lives, though others were left confused at this complex display of the oddly human engineered presentation of “overcoming sin”.

He rolled out of bed at 6:28 thirteen ‘unlucky’ minutes after he snoozed the alarm. His coffee waited for him, but his nostrils could not pull in its scent. Was it Vanilla Kahlua, or Hazelnut today, he didn’t know not like it would matter. He wouldn’t taste it anyways. He poured his coffee with a shot of vodka, what he had experienced as the panacea vaccine of a hangover. Most pastors take an oath of sobriety and faithfulness, but not Elijah. This church prided itself as the father of de- jay, down to earth, hip-hop Christianity which people actually enjoyed. His church topped out at around 7,000 per Sunday with 2 locations and a video broadcast streaming in. This modern church was in need of a modern pastor not a Puritanical convictor and condemner of old. Prosperity was the new show. And hip hop passionate speaking, singing and dancing, its soundtrack.  Prince fit the mold all too perfectly. As is often the case, he was brought into the job and told at the start the justifications rather than the expectations, the reasons rather than the limits. It creates a limitless society, but one far too often devoid of nobleness. 4 years now at this job, full of all the fun of reckless living, or as close to it as one can get. Yet his job also came with the false assurance of redemption and sort of tenure eternally, as if this job made him untouchable to God. The false belief that one who saves is automatically saved. However, the fact that one says he knows of God holds no true, grace-given bearing, of knowing God. One who knows God is known by God. Many know of God, while few know God. The second, more trying, but more beautiful. “Many who call out Lord, Lord will not enter”. A wolf dressed in sheep’s wool is no better a sheep than the naked wolf. “The gate is narrow and few enter it”, only to those that understand the sacrifice of Christ on the Cross and that gift of Love which is so painful it ought to make you curse yourself. Sacrifice must be revisited, cause pain, agony, it must be personal. Remembering sacrifice is like remembering a bad meal and never revisiting it. However true understanding of sacrifice, comes when one understands that this is the only food there is and that sooner or later you will starve and this life will be over with nothing more but pain to offer him. He who eats, because he must, and in throwing up at the pain it causes him, knowing it caused one man, far more pain, one who tasted a far worst bite of life than any man could imagine. And in remembering and honoring this sacrifice, rise up still sick, but determined, to bring back all who were lost and hungry, back to the table.

A knock at the door demolishes his recovering hypersensitive ear drums. His head leans back as he rolls his eyes back in his head feeling falsely that somehow that would revitalize somehow the broken mess he was. He wanted to feel shame knowing what awaited him out on the porch, but remembering somewhat sparsely he does not recall judgment. He smirks a grin as he walks to the door, a sort of look-what-I-did-me-and-my-bat-outta-hell-self. You can’t tame this. I run this mother effer. This is a belief which scares and embarrasses many who read its words, but in the same situation it is all one can come up with to truly transcribe their feelings. Sinful emotion can only be described by words of the same.  He opens the door still wearing that grin which he wore more like a ‘guilty and proud’ dirty innocence that uninformed toddlers have when they feel that they’ve weaseled out of a rule without giving lee-way for punishment. He looked at the face of Jason and what appears to be hurt, freezing his once glowing face. His lips turn in a more southward direction as his crisp blue eyes shed a single sparkling tear. His eyes evinced disappointment; the fatal combination of sadness, righteous anger, and hurt. 90% sadness, 10% a holy anger, 100% hurt. It took off his grin but Elijah was unable to do anymore. He wasn’t himself, just like the previous morning, but this time it was a drunken power not a glorious one.

He mumbled for him to come in head hanging down, speech still slightly overcome by his ignorant imbibifications. Jason stepped in the doorframe which was slung open entirely in the preacher’s lazy sloth. Jason was expected to close it, he guessed, but this arrogant subliminal demand didn’t alter the angel’s purpose as he did so with powerful ease.

“Sit down, Mr. Prince.” He paused briefly not sighing in annoyance but gathering himself so as not to evince such a behavior.” I’d like to talk to you.” Jason said annunciating every consonant a bit more warmly then his first four words though not tainted in their authoritative meaning. To the point, but not stern. He was a master communicator.

                Jason swallowed hard almost choking a tiny bit at the awkward sensation, though his face remained unshaken, and his mind unaltered in its pursuit of the right words to say. He said a quick and silent prayer. Not actually saying a thing, even with the mouth of his mind, but merely opening his mind to let The Great Intercessor in to go to the father with his prayer, by moanings, and groaning too deep and powerful for human words.

                Prince sat there motionless with his hands firmly folded each finger between its twin covering up the weakest part of his body, though his mind was racing and his soul was exposed. His folded hands tucked underneath his distinguished chin his knuckles pushing the bones of his jaw out ever so slightly giving the (rather see through) façade that he was deep in thought. This wasn’t a total deception as he truly was thinking, his mind was going everywhere. As anyone who has ever prayed would attest, focus is hard to come by in this myopia of selfishness we call the world. Elijah’s eyes flexed, squinting them a small bit forming lines around his eyes which many feign as wisdom. (Far too many are successful). Jason was not as easily duped.

                These simultaneous moments of intellectual extravaganza (of very differing kinds) ended at the same time as they each made the eye contact Elijah had tried to forestall. Jason began to speak by the power of the Holy Spirit.

                “My brother, my love for you is eternal. My affection grows with the morning. My desire for your place in the kingdom brings my mouth open in admiration. My mind yearns to know the things you can know and feel. Yet you, yourself see it as a curse. Your depravity is also a blessing. You get to achieve experience, realization, discovery. You get the pleasure of exploration, the joy of aspiration, and the victory of working through life. Life doesn’t come to you, but Christ did. What love! Yet you sit here looking at me through drunken eyes and talk with easy lips.” Jason’s voice was trailing towards a higher pitch though his anger was held tautly behind his forehead where a vein now pulsed and small beads of sweat formed. His voice broke on occasion as would naturally post cede such a rage against the incomprehensible. He paused though, at this moment to study quickly the response of the man for which he guarded every day.

                Prince, throughout the conversation, twisted his lips in a rather odd and unbecoming fashion pursing them together turning his lips inside out so they were barely visible from the outside. Staring at the thick birch wood slabs laden with distracting knots and cracks, he found his only escape. His eyelids barely closed over his half-dead eyes. Each blink burned slightly more than the last.

A Funeral

Smoke traces circles in the frostbit air
From the mouth of the heathen
To cry is to bare

Muffled self-righteous prayers hum

In the aftermath of shock
Harmonizing with death’s drum

Celtic crosses glint in the icicle sunlight

Mule-like boots trudge through sno-cone mud

In hyper-somber unison they are lifted, held tight

Christian sits placid, upright, providentially

To give cause to a life well lived
His soul in God hands, but he could praise him existentially

CPI Security. Identify Yourself...or not

CPI security screeches its ignorable alarm as a man, dressed in night, bursts through the full length window at the front of the house. His body black against the night, a shadow; he pauses for a moment as he is spotlighted by the half-moon of early October. Middle Eastern brown eyes glinting, with the 9 millimeter handgun pulsing intermittently, adrenaline filled and imminent, a thick hand flicks on a flashlight. At eye level it moves professionally, an extension of his very own vision, as he flits through the territory of the unfamiliar house like a hornet, deranged, wanting for something but not knowing yet what that will be. And he would get it, whatever it was. Deceptively, down the long, narrow corridor of the hallway he drips, like the wet mold of the aging house, he creeps, cautiously, but without anxiety. His left hand firmly grips the pistol, his right squeezing it to the flashlight almost as a single weapon. The squeak of bedroom slippers softly penetrates his heightened senses amidst the awoken and blaring darkness. The intruder halts. He was not alone. Bedroom slippers and flannel pants on, the wood cut man, grabs the 22. in his drawer, with flexed arms and heightened senses he opens the door with his gun. It clicks into place. He tiptoes into the hallway and gunfire erupts; rushed shots flying from the perpetrator. The muscular man spins in behind the door frame, firing a series of hopeless amateurish shots which explode into the walls in the home of his childhood. Drowning breaths ventilate him as he makes himself a statue, in the midst of frenzied gunfire and Arabic gibberish. The hornet moves in, slinking down the enduring walls. Two feet away and he is noted, his presence met with a desperate spin from the protection of the doorframe.  Two barrels on two foreheads lay, warm from firing, but evoking, in the impaling words of Fever 1973, the cold and ‘yellow scent of death’. Two pairs of brown eyes meet, neither innocent, though neither entirely guilty, both, scared. Each sees themself in the eyes of their opponent, forced to bear cause for the casualties so near and so close. Looking into their eyes, passion is eliminated, each person stands shakily wielding the irrevocable power of death in their hands, and knowing the effect of this tragedy, they wait. Silent, deathlike seconds rumble by. No shot is fired. Death having been evaded, fear raged, shock intoxicated, and lives changed, but no shot is fired. The power of death in two capable hands extinguished by selfishness, brought on by efficiency, and no shot is fired. Idle threats and maxed out advancement; still, no shot is fired.