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ShamanI've got a friend that likes to call himself a shaman.
Here's the problem as best as I as see it.
It's not that he doesn't bathe.
It isn't that he used to be an adventist.
I understand that.
You have to take them as they come.
Nope, nosiree no-how.
The problem is that I'm a better shaman than him.
I wonder what that says about me and my faith.
It isn't that I don't bathe.
Because I do.
And it isn't because I used to be an adventist.
I never was.
It's that I know more than I should
for a Catholic in my age.
I know the Runes like the back of my hand,
and I know the names of my forefathers' gods.
I recall the deeds of Odin and I know the song of the North.
My blood cries out when I hear it call,
and my heart, it skips a beat.
I work the earth,
and I don't eat me no meat.
My namesake has something to say,
'be all things for all people,
that through you they might see Christ.'
Perhaps it's a happy problem that I have.
To be a better shaman than a shaman.
So come all you pagans,
Saints JudasA patron Saint invoked for desperate causes,
and a hero remembered in silent pauses.
A Christian Martyr and a Jewish warrior.
The one began the trend,
the other followed it to the end.
A prayer carried on the breath of the smoke,
carried up on the wings of tradition,
recalling the words that the Lord once spoke,
bitter words piercing the hearts of men in sedition.
Saint Judas Thaddeus,
man of God, pray for me.
Saint Judas Maccabeus,
you taught us how to see.
One died in a land of familiar vice,
the other offered up eternal sacrifice.
Take my words up on the wings of a prayer,
take them, God, and bring me there.
Once More With FeelingScream with me.
Give praise to the Lord, all you wicked servants.
And praise your Sovereign King.
Under the light of the moon,
with the cool air at your flesh.
Praise him with your agony and defeat.
Praise him with your shame and your memories.
Praise him with your promise and your future.
But don't forget.
God is love.
It's easy to forget.
Perhaps too easy.
But when you remember
scream with me.
Once more with feeling.
Identity CrisisSometimes it's tempting,
to keep my identity in a box.
To draw it up in things,
like a pin, or a Cross.
My KofC badge could be me for awhile,
and then my Guadalupe pendant.
But take these things away from me
and what am I then?
Just a tattoo and a haircut.
There's a reason vanity was reckoned of the seven sins.
And it's a damn good one.
It's easy these days,
too easy to forget yourself.
But who am I to judge?
Bottleneck SacrilegeThere's a Rosary wrapped tightly around your neck,
plastic beads make a regal collar for Mr. Boston's throat.
You haven't held the Cross since God knows when,
but you've held a prayer between your teeth
and begged Saint Brendan to ease your throat and put you to sleep.
Grant us O Lord a restful sleep and a peaceful death.
Questions We Shouldn't Be AskingPray for me.
You can rest assured I'll pray for you.
And if I pray for you, will the Lord hear my prayer?
I have never seen your face.
Chances are you've never seen mine.
I don't know you from Adam
And I'm certainly no Eve.
So when I pray for you,
do I know who you are?
Prayer is an intimacy, of sorts.
The Mystics have said as much.
So that makes me a voyeur.
Because when I pray I like to pretend.
I pretend I can see your face.
And I pray for an idol.
When I pray for you, am I really even praying?
Or is it just a fantasy?
These are the questions we shouldn't be asking.
Oh I know, there's a Catholic answer.
But I don't have it.
When a tree falls in the woods, pray there's no one there,
and then ask if there was a sound.
But don't let it bother you.
Just think about it.
And maybe ask the question.
Send it up on the wings of a prayer,
wreathed in holy smoke.
An oblation to the God of riddles.
Plastic SaintsLet me ask you a question
maybe you have an answer.
Between Catholics bound
in communion with Rome.
Has a plastic saint ever saved a man?
Will they intercede for us before the copper Christ?
He's hanging on your wall,
naming all the sins in your television set.
As you sit there with your back against the wall,
And your eyes on the tube.
Just between Catholics.
Shouldn't the plastic Saint come before the idiot box?
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;
Open and stare through the lights,
Into the darkness of doom.
And yet they smile,
Yet they smile.
A drop of tear;
Seeps through the garden of death;
Falls to the mortal soil.
Dreams and desires will blend again,
To render the roses alive.
I am floating through a vision.
Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.
Can reality be so real?
Let me drown again,
Into the silence of familiar noise.
As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.
The flame of hope burns bright,
Drenched in the colors of freedom.
So let my dreams unravel my soul,
As darkness fades away;
And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.
As these pair of eyes,
Open to stare through the lights again.
Is this reality?
Can reality be so real?
Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;
Staring at the distant lights;
Staring beyond the distant skies.
What do they see?
What do they long?
What do they desire?
Then the skies will break down;
White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.
Moments will tur
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More