Magnum Opus

Some produce a magnum opus – some don’t.
Those that don’t do a Divine Comedy or an Odyssey or a Sistine Chapel perhaps prefer to slice open a succulent Texas grapefruit and
sprinkle some sugar over the upturned halves.

As he sprinkles he smiles at the ruby red halves sitting on
beautiful saucer he purchased for his bride from a Hopi in Navaho Land.


200 S. Illinois St.

Falling onto the culvert, feeling flustered, then, throbbing, then, that embarrassment all boys feel. And their overpowering presence – LOL – looming over me. Dad slaphappy, bent over with laughter. And I , I , sat on that sizeable concrete culvert, crumpled by clumsiness, began to whine (little boys don’t shed tears, not in my family). But my mother laughed so hard, she peed herself. “my clumsy son has fallen in the ditch,” she crows. But, I was six years old and smoldering.

In that day…

In that day the Lord will strip them of haute couture: 

The burnished bangles bought 

And headbands from chic boutiques 

And crescent necklaces overstocked at Muslim shops 

The earrings charged last May at Macy’s 

And bracelets by Tiffany & Co. 

And the hijab or the niqab or the burka banned in France 

The Sanz’s headpieces 

And ankle chains from Amazon 

And pageant sashes, 

Estee Lauder Perfumes, 

And 14 k golden charms, 

The diamond rings 

And sterling nose studs, 

The 100% silk kimonos 

And cashmere capes 

And velvet cloaks, 

The purses by Coach 

And purse mirrors with satin pouches, 

And Egyptian linen 

And tiger eye tiaras 

And Pashmina shawls. 

Instead of sweet scent there will be a stench; instead of a sash, a noose; instead of a hot hairdo, hair loss;
instead of chic, shit; 

instead of splendor, squalor. 

(Paraphrase of Isaiah 3:18 – 24).



A Day of Humiliation is Coming

“The LORD Almighty has a day in store
for all the proud and lofty,
for all that is exalted
(and they will be humbled) . . . .

The arrogance of man will be brought low
and the pride of men humbled;
the LORD alone will be exalted in that day. . . .

Stop trusting in man,
who has but a breath in his nostrils.
Of what account is he?” (Isaiah 2: 12, 17, 22).

8000 Chickens

Low flying Hueys buzz my flock at @ 2 AM;
Weekend warriors were out having fun.

Bantams collided in midair with broilers,
Careening off one another,
Messerschmitts and Spitfires crashing into tin,
Piling up thick against the wall of their coop.

At dawn, walking out to survey the damage, I see red.
I spy broken birds; my forehead furrows.
I scoop red earth, slinging it at the scarlet sky.

My arms extending.
My fists clenching, clutching clay,
Chicken blood dripping from my fingers.

Next morning the rag reports:
“Eight Thousand Chickens Destroyed
In Cadaverous County.”

Confessions of an insomniac

I live in a quiet neighborhood cloaked by giant pecan tress, long tresses of honeysuckle and trumpet vines that obscure the details of our private lives. Wednesday, July 09, 2003

I sit in the chair looking across the alley viewing an backyard filled with junk: 1 red used Ford pick up truck, a flatbed-type trailer loaded done with household appliances – washing machine, dryer, etc. This backyard is strewn with lumber, tools and framed with overgrown weeds and grass. Wednesday, July 09, 2003

Last weekend I drive past the front yard of this residence and notice clothing lines on the fence, more appliances, furniture, two leather sofas…its was like the entire innards of the house were on display.  It was a junk-fest. Friday, July 4th, 2003 8AM

The evening of the start of the weekend brought the two flashing police cars to the junk-fest.  Friday, July 4th, 2003 9PM

Afterthought: Several months earlier, there were 8 cops with flashlights searching the aforementioned backyard. Thursday, March 13th, 2003

Several sightings of the same early AM activity, months ago: young men hauling stuff to and from the backyard. [From January to June 2003.]

Now all is silence, until last weekend. Wednesday, July 09, 2003. 9:46:45 AM

The lights go on at 10 PM in the house across the alley. I sit outside, near the tomato patch, listening to the young man argue with another young man. I hear him shout the name of his associate “Jeff! Get your shit together on this!”

No reply. Jeff quietly watches the louder man, then, takes drag on his cigarette. They began to bend down to look at something near the trailer. This trailer is hitched to the red pick up. It appears to be loaded with washing machines, dryers and dish washer.

Dead Orthodoxy

Many years ago, I heard a friend of mine use the phrase, dead orthodoxy; I was puzzled. If memory serves me, he didn’t expound on the term. On retrospect, I understand. But in those early years I was surrounded with red-hot soul-winners, believers who when testifying would weep.  Their hearts were tender. Seeing this sweetness in “church members,” blew me away.
Today, I live in a city where there seems to be a church building on every street corner. For several years this urban legend has been circulating. Someone added the legend that our city was listed at You get the idea.
Religious pride dominates our city like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in “Ghostbusters.“ And if you walk our streets, even today, people cower when they see that transparent white monster masquerading The mainstream church has, apparently, created another Frankenstein; he seems “sweet,” but, of course, looks are deceiving.
My point: dead orthodoxy is not  merely an idea or urban legend; it’s a monster walking about, seeking someone to devour.
My real point: authentic Holy Spirit inspired theology should deter dead orthodoxy.