Marry Like Water (Destiny’s Daughter’s Wine) February 1, 2009

Marry our daughter. We’re out of food and water, fresh escargot, His cargo full of grilled caribou, fine wine, Malibu tofu in a fine, tangy goo. We wannabe richly constantly passing contented constipation like million dollar bills, gorgeously green, sun-tanning naked in the bright sunlight on top our Lord baby Jesus’ thrift-store dresser.

We know Kimberly S. is a good Christian girl deep down in her heart, but she’s too hot to trot, probably smokes pot in the Quickie Mart parking lot. She needs a STRONG Christian man with STRONG Christian values to beat out the living daylights with the rod of Todd and his thick-as-a-Bible belt. 79 thousand dollars and you can make her holler, straight up legal like the Regal in the US of A. Just turned 14, she’ll smell like Maybelline for Teens as she’s washing your floor down on all fours, loving Britney just like Jesus, maybe even more. Money for holy matrimony will make a nice down payment on Daddy’s speedboat sacrament, maybe buy Mommy Imelda Marcos’ thousand pairs of shoes, half-off at Good Will.

So marry our daughter. Fresh, young, 13, she’s ready for her sacred rite of passage, that first kiss on the altar of love, tied up tight like virginity in the throngs of King Kong. Pubescent perdition is a family tradition, going all the way back to great, great grandma’s first menstrual cramps. Her mom married at 13, like her grandma and her grandma’s grandma, engaged before the legal age to get an abortion without Daddy’s permission in 1 out of 5 states. She may be too young to drink 3 percent beer, would rather date Richard Gere, but she’s legally yours for $56,000.

Lord, please, marry our daughter. She dresses in black, depression-drenched in Kerouac, like nighttime was a bottle of wine and the moon’s just some lousy beatnik. 15, droning poems like some aging gnome squatting on a mushroom barstool, she’s wondering when her old soul will begin again. She’s got the mind of a Bodhavista, the body of Hannah Montana dressed like Marilyn Manson, but for 42 thousand clams, she’ll damn well darn socks, polish floors, bloody indeed breed for the seed of the Lord.

See, bride price is a Biblical tradition, a Moses cure-all prescription for teenage sedition. When good ol’ boy Shechem raped Jacob’s daughter, it took some hefty hauling to get her to his kitchen to make him some bacon. We’re talking circumcision down to size, not just himself but the whole fucking countryside, every male down the line giving a little skin so this mother fucking rapist can get by. Circumcised by circumstance comes up in the Bible only once in a while, usually as some weird-ass pimp fee, a Ticket Bastard charge on a credit card, some slice of super congealed Ronald Reagan lard on your wheat melba toast. Like Holy Matrimonies don’t cost enough money, they’ll slice off a piece of dick to boot too.

Or how about King David schilling out 100 Philistinian foreskins like onion ring tokens of true radiant love? Hell, it’s in the Bible, people raping, foreskin forking, fucking sick ass shit, flaming on a stick, like hell’s bowels owns a website and all the bust-a-religiousnuts subscribe.

To kind of world do we want to subscribe? Selling our daughters for a cup of cold water, a diamond ring, the American dream, legal as a steeple and somehow justified by God? Girls locked and stocked like bunnies on the 4-H auction block, sold like slaves, like livestock, adding acres to the farm and a Jacuzzi with a view. Is Jesus the confessor of Chester the Molester; how can Sunday go so horribly wrong?

When will we realize we are the eyes of God? We are imagination mentioning infinity, our own tree falling in the woods, hearing our thoughts for the very first time. Infinite love is instantly intent when we choose to invent it, ascend into the bend to see who we really are. We are the sons of a Sun, the daughters of a Star, a rippling divinity of Creation’s creativity, an idea born from Universal dust. When we will we marry our destiny, choose true love and become happily ever after?

Everywhere are miracles, like marigolds shining bright in this Milky Way night, as open as a Universal Kiss. Kindness opens minds, as hydrogen doubles oxygen into water’s weddings’ wine.

Mary up in Smoke (Nirvana’s Ocean Blue Skies) February 1, 2009

Mary had a little lamb, a little house, a prairie, starched pure white all buttoned tight, a contrary sanctuary. For everywhere that Mary went, puberty publicly followed, flying high on Junior High, nursing rhymes soaked in sin like a hymen’s hymn.

Because just like Jesus’ best friends, Mary exists, or does do did, since was is shall will ever be and we are altogether now. A living nursery rhyme, a day in the life of time, a shooting star jumping over the moon, spooning the cow as the fiddler jams “Stairway to Heaven” on a roof-topped 80s’ luxury van.

Legend takes whatever it can get. Apparently in 1830, a prairie girl named Mary fell head over summer’s salt in love with a motherless lamb, sweating schoolgirl desire like Ritchie Havens’ divinity in a Woodstock sun. Living up to being a legend long after her time, Mary took the lamb to school one day, stashing lamb chops under her coat like some dime bag of schwag, sticks and stems and seeds as white as snow.

‘Cause the smell of lamb follows you for days, Mary got busted and dazed in a lamb-loving haze as all the children laughed. The teacher discovered when Mary’s lamb lived up to a poem, following Mary around like some religious nut bugging Jesus for His autograph. A preacher’s kid wrote it all down and gave the poem to Mary, making nursery rhyme history, immorality’s reality against a sea of forgotten graves. For off the God boy went to Harvard with this literary gift, where he upped and dropped dead of tuberculosis, never even getting close to writing his thesis.

True story. With a moral. Give it while you’ve got it ‘cause you’re gonna be dead. Tell that story to the next four-year-old in bed, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll take his own life serious enough to live, actually give blood sweating blues like a rift, like Dr. Teeth is his Jesus, gliding high in a double-decker Muppet Magic bus doling dayglow to the masses.

Yes, Mary and her lamb lived real flesh and blood, riddled in acne, 12-year-old blues, out of key puberty in prescription elevator shoes. Like Jesus Abraham Lincoln Abercombie & Fitch, Mary had problems, bad days, down and out dues, hoping to God this world’s blues pay something in the end. Thank God it does, as whoremongering hormones score golden orgasms of sin, like smiley faces in the Special Olympics of life, dark deep thoughts growing hair on their hands as everyone goes blind. Buttoned down in mutton down, Mary couldn’t see a thing.

Maybe Mary masturbates an afterlife of glowing red fire to Buddha’s dark blue hue, but what I want to know is, why’d they have to burn her house down, Mr. Death?

Six six-packs of Schlitz may have had something to do with it. Last summer, two rednecks from Clinton torched the house Mary grew up in. In a flash of fire and brimstone nursery rhyme arson, Mary’s innocence burned down to the ground, like some distant memory of a 3-parred, 9-holed ancient Indian burial mound.

But innocence dies as soon as we’re born. From that first brilliant moment of God’s holy orgasm of prepubescent blues, we’re all born gods and demons, wrestling the wheel of this ethereal areoplane, nose diving or shooting high into Buddha’s blue Zen. Get your kicks while you can, but believe in oxygen. Everyone soars into the same blue Nirvana wind, whether sky blue oceans or ocean blue skies, all ending as one, buy and by.