Communions

by Brett Rutherford

She kept count.

The day came

when she refused

another service.

"I'm done, now.

No more communions.

At one ounce each

of holy wafers

I figure I've eaten

a whole Jesus now.

"Enough is enough."

 

 

God Has

by Brett Rutherford

GOD HAS

no wife

no son

no beard

no lady friends

or boyfriends

no grudge

no diet

no plan, no

thou shalt nots

no enemies

no favored kings

or princes

no national

boundaries

no favorite colors

no winning teams

no prayers heard

no idea where

the lost pet went

no warehouse

where the dead are kept,

no tally of names

and ancestry

no more in one place

than another,

no Golden Age

remembered,

no covenants there

to be reminded of

no wish

to be bothered at all

oh, and no name

to call him by,

no anagrams or sigils,

yet not, assuredly not

nothing at all

since his or its

eidolon persists.

One thing only

asserts itself

everywhere

and instantly,

a thing ironically

called "g"

elusive and

ineluctable, a thing

that makes anvils drop

on the heads of fools,

or apples to

the open hand --

Gravity!

Epigrams on Prophets and Such

by Brett Rutherford

1.

Beware the bearded men

who say they know

Everything.

2.

The headless chicken

has found the ax.

3.

Who knows more

about purity

than an unwashed monk?

4.

Who takes your tithe,

touches your ten-year-old.

5.

Two in the bush

is the root of all evil.

6.

An egg

requires no catechism.

7.

Would you teach a tree

geometry?

The Problem With Utopias

by Brett Rutherford

It was all fine and good
in the land of milk and honey.
Everyone had the same religion
and worshiped the same elder god,
shaggy and jealous as he was,
short-tempered with plague and flood,
until the young men, tempted, strayed,
into the arms of “strange women.”

Each time a holy man or woman
led hundreds away
to some hidden valley,
life was perfect, as though
all minds were of common accord,
until the children born there
had quite enough of Paradise,
craving flesh-pots and pyramids.
Utopia is not genetic; in fact,
each generation must make its own.

The worker’s paradise
looked fine on paper, way back
in the soot-chimney gloom of ‘48.
No matter that half the population
would have to be murdered at last
to give the other half a dull life

of gray and anonymous equality.

Galt’s Gulch and lumberjack liberty
appealed to many, ego-proud.
It made us feel good to be worthy,
and smart, and fully in tune
with the provisos of absolute logic.
Like Christ who pushed off
the ledge of Heaven,
all of Satan’s bad angels,
Ayn Rand
would hurl the beggars and moochers
into the nullity they so well deserved.
It wasn’t really a philosophy,
and sure as hell it knew no history,
but it was a solipsist Utopia smug
on top of a coming dystopia.

The worst Utopia of all
is the pig-selfish Heaven
the TV evangelists shovel out
as dullard’s dollars flow in
to support their personal fortunes
and offshore bank accounts.

This Heaven is a pig-sty of desire
amid perpetual harp-playing
and off-key singing, a sky
where squalling babies and lost pets
forever seek their former owners,
smug Paradise of only the saved
with choice seats
to look down into Hell.

Meanwhile, the real world
is a Utopia of Things
whose makers rule
like Byzantine Emperors.

Hail to the Six Treasures:
guns and drugs, cars and girls,
tobacco-death, sports mania.
No Utopia without pizza!
No Heaven without women
waiting to be grabbed!
No Paradise without guns,
and something quivering
to be stalked and shot.
Heaven is a big cigar,
hog-mouth open for the next slice
with lots of pepperoni,
and all of them, all men of course,
are all the spitting image
of Tom Brady.

At least the animals are not
the least bit interested
in making a Utopia.
They live in the present,
and that is all there is.