Tuesday, October 24, 2006


The machine
The endless march of the machine
The tireless march of the machine
The mindless work of the machine
The cogs turn and are turned
They turn out glory from week to week
Some greater, some lesser
Always some glory
And always some minor glory for everyone
The reward of labor
The carrot to inspire
The feeling of belonging,
Of purpose,
Of achievement,
Unreplicable on their own

Their purpose-
The machine.
Their life-
The machine.
Their battle-
The machine.
All who cannot wage this war,
Or live that life,
Or assume that same purpose,
Are the dreaded enemy.
Two options for these:
Assimilation or Annihilation.
There is no middle ground of evil compromise.

We all work within a machine.
A machine of our own making,
Or another's.
My purpose is your purpose
When your purpose is my purpose.
My heart is yours
When your heart is mine.
When the machine is more important than you and I
We can't share heart or purpose.
When we can't share heart or purpose,
The machine is too important.

The machines in my past
Are all out of batteries
But still making noise.
The dreadful noise of distance,
Of erstwhile causes greater than ourselves,
Causes that consumed ourselves,
Until we no longer knew ourselves,
Until we harmed ourselves,
Until we consumed ourselves,
Until we vanquished ourselves.
I'm still alive.
Should I be?

Monday, October 23, 2006


What do I choose to do? Who do I choose to contradict? Who becomes my enemy?
They say you shouldn't talk about religion and politics.
I was raised to build my life around religion.
A religion that built its essence around Christ, allegedly.
It provides the flavor of Christianity.
It is convincing.
It is embracing.
It is prescriptive.
It is manageable.
It is methodical.
As a representation of Christianity it takes its place.
It holds a grip.
It molds the life.
It shapes a mind.
It conditions the Spirit.
Everything is it's representation to those who merely observe.
Those involved hold up the representation for their own ends.
There is no substance,
For man is the substance
And his works like a mist create a sense of substance.
Those who observe are beholden to those who are involved
Because they are the substance.
The observers seek to the involved for substance,
And are given the vain lives of the involved in return.
They thus feel strengthened,
When they are merely emboldened.
From these emboldened
Come the next group of the involved,
Who carry on the substance
Of the vanity of the last generation
Rooted in nothing but their own conceit.
These so called righteous
Claim the souls of men,
And capture the minds of men,
Passing on the bundle of fleshy death
Wrapped as life.
For this they are heroes.
For this men fight valiantly,
For this men war constantly,
Out of this men plan their destiny
And the destiny of their children
Who will live on to fight.
This is religion.