Gethsemani
In the garden
I prayed alone
Shitting drops of blood
With you
Just a stone’s throw away
Asleep
After dropping your phone
On your face
You said it yourself
It is too painful
To wear my clothes
And you prefer the outdoors
Nude
But not naked
Showing everything
But revealing nothing
It is true
My hairshirt
Was given to me
By the Creator
Maybe ex-lovers
Friends who betrayed me
Possibly parents
Or just my sins
Believe me
I begged God
To take away this cup
Or at least
To replace the wine
With beer
Room temperature water
Or Gatorade
I’ve been getting drunk
On Yellow Tail
Every night
Since
Saving the best for last
Heaven
Hell
Or my journey through the Aerial Toll-Houses
Just so you know
Though I prefer the beach
And the ocean
I like mountains
In fact
I’ve been to the top
Transfigured
By the light of the Son
But I knew better
Than to pitch a tent
So I could camp out
And pretend I’m living “off-the-grid”
Drinking whiskey
Like that fucking TV commercial
You know the one
Old men with big dicks
Gethsemani
Is not for the faint of heart
Tourists
Who think they’re pilgrims
Or hedonists who want to pretend
It’s the Garden of Eden
Like wannabe monastics
Equating the gift shop with the monastery
Stephanie
With her $250 rosary from Fatima
Wearing a cute “modest” thrift store dress
Too pious to admit she still loves porn
It’s too much of a compliment
To call such people
Pharisees
Just fucking posers
I now understand
Why Merton
Is not a saint
But a better role model
He was a decent writer
And a horrible monk
But unlike Seraphim Rose
He didn’t pretend to be Russian
Tom
Like all recovering addicts
Failed at success
But succeeded in faith
Where questions
Tell us more
About the truth
Than answers
It’s a sure sign of prelest
To accuse others of prelest
It’s the defining mark of humility
To accuse yourself as a guilty bystander
I mean, don’t play the martyr
Much less the Prodigal’s older brother
Be the Publican
But don’t consider yourself one
I, too
Fantasized
About becoming
St. Francis of Assisi
John the Baptist
Or Bono
And don’t even start with that
“What would Jesus do?” bullshit
Salvation
Is not about
Perfection
Self-actualization
Much less
Sinning to get saved
More like a return
Back to the beginning
The first blank page
Of a brand new journal
From Barnes & Noble
And a fresh pack of Sharpie markers
Where one day
You’ll drop the pen
And write nothing
Because it’s better left unsaid
—
1 July 2019
12:00 AM
I prayed alone
Shitting drops of blood
With you
Just a stone’s throw away
Asleep
After dropping your phone
On your face
You said it yourself
It is too painful
To wear my clothes
And you prefer the outdoors
Nude
But not naked
Showing everything
But revealing nothing
It is true
My hairshirt
Was given to me
By the Creator
Maybe ex-lovers
Friends who betrayed me
Possibly parents
Or just my sins
Believe me
I begged God
To take away this cup
Or at least
To replace the wine
With beer
Room temperature water
Or Gatorade
I’ve been getting drunk
On Yellow Tail
Every night
Since
Saving the best for last
Heaven
Hell
Or my journey through the Aerial Toll-Houses
Just so you know
Though I prefer the beach
And the ocean
I like mountains
In fact
I’ve been to the top
Transfigured
By the light of the Son
But I knew better
Than to pitch a tent
So I could camp out
And pretend I’m living “off-the-grid”
Drinking whiskey
Like that fucking TV commercial
You know the one
Old men with big dicks
Gethsemani
Is not for the faint of heart
Tourists
Who think they’re pilgrims
Or hedonists who want to pretend
It’s the Garden of Eden
Like wannabe monastics
Equating the gift shop with the monastery
Stephanie
With her $250 rosary from Fatima
Wearing a cute “modest” thrift store dress
Too pious to admit she still loves porn
It’s too much of a compliment
To call such people
Pharisees
Just fucking posers
I now understand
Why Merton
Is not a saint
But a better role model
He was a decent writer
And a horrible monk
But unlike Seraphim Rose
He didn’t pretend to be Russian
Tom
Like all recovering addicts
Failed at success
But succeeded in faith
Where questions
Tell us more
About the truth
Than answers
It’s a sure sign of prelest
To accuse others of prelest
It’s the defining mark of humility
To accuse yourself as a guilty bystander
I mean, don’t play the martyr
Much less the Prodigal’s older brother
Be the Publican
But don’t consider yourself one
I, too
Fantasized
About becoming
St. Francis of Assisi
John the Baptist
Or Bono
And don’t even start with that
“What would Jesus do?” bullshit
Salvation
Is not about
Perfection
Self-actualization
Much less
Sinning to get saved
More like a return
Back to the beginning
The first blank page
Of a brand new journal
From Barnes & Noble
And a fresh pack of Sharpie markers
Where one day
You’ll drop the pen
And write nothing
Because it’s better left unsaid
—
1 July 2019
12:00 AM