And the sun sits. While the earth turns.

What do we believe? So we’ve skipped right past knowing, have we.
To have faith. Or be had by one. Buyer’s choice.

To the chagrin of mainstream religion.
God gave dominion broken up equally among all the living.
And doesn’t much care who wears white collars.
It isn’t likely to care too much about any one us at all.
Just lucky to be lumped in with the rest of the universe.

I believe.

If language fails to articulate the relationship we have with our creator.
The flaw is in language.
We are here. We exist.
Some thing. Some it.
Some process led to all this.

God is the three-lettered word we use to discuss whatever that is.
Whatever It it turns out to be. Or doesn’t.

Even if It only happened once.
And now It isn’t in existence.

Belief.
I believe.
I know.

There will be a tomorrow.
The sun doesn’t rise to convince me.

I can see it in the stars.
The entire earth is turning.

Well fed martyrs #oldjournals

Turn. Change. Transfigure. The trinity of our people.
Our people, used loosely, for we have never come together as one.
Failed, where ants and honeybees succeed,
at creating and sustaining efficient colonies.

Community. Congregation. Culture. Concentrated into cults.
Letting children light their candles.
Thinking drinking symbolic blood makes a better person.
Group-think denial-grace came at no cost,
when it earned its chief revelator a cross.

Transformed torture devices into symbolic vestiges of sacrifices
we, as a people, are not yet prepared to make. Flimsy. False. Fake.
Even if we were to nail up a martyr or two, our crosses would probably break.

We’re different. We’ve changed. We’re transfigured.
Also, as a whole, people have gotten bigger.
We might need to upgrade to an anchored metal frame
to sustain the weight of such well fed martyrs.

On me. My. Mine.

What am I doing with my life, calling it mine.
Other men’s names stitched inside my clothing.
Other cities on my lunch beer. Long list of strangers
in my phone. Mine. Maybe. But really not mine alone.
Sharing as a way of life. As ethos.
Let us use sharing as the mortar between bricks and see how well it sticks.
Community. Built of what? Out of unity? Out of punity? Of you and me?
Didn’t read that on the receipt. And I know the price.
But the cost is lost. On me. My. Mine.
I can dig as deep down as I like, what will I find,
a mine for a mind is a noble thing to displace.
Dirt. Rock. Endeavor and effort.
All misplaced and wasted.

If I can not own it, then it must be truth.
And within truth, I am included.
Though I have no name, mine or otherwise,
stitched inside my self.

My Maker could be the pure embodiment of understanding.
Doesn’t make It any better at branding.