A church of dimes I begin. A dime at the door, the exact replica of the tithe, the tenth.
Kataboles placed in the epitomic dish, above it the only righteous sign to hang reads “change.” Business first, then you get your salve, your salvation.
Yes then I blaspheme for an hour. A rant of consciousness, payments of attention, the eye of Ra, and the sacrificial murder and it’s glorious cover up story.
Then the recovery akin to after-care, a relation to the lay who have lain down their coin—and yet I will ask them for their lives to boot.
And they will praise and gregariously worship the light and the dark in fascinated confusion of their own symbolic dissolution. A weeping and a laughter, the Cry-Laughing Christ, the ridens deus—for thankful we are when the face of god no longer reflects our self-enmity nor reminds us of our original victim, our “survival” of Abel.
I will weep with them in all sincerity at our broken altar—our collective determination to fore-give rightfully due penance, to absorb violence, to give the coat when only the shirt is required.
And we will ready our own persecution somehow, by some insane human flaw, because even when of good intention, Gentlemen, we are not the keys of the piano.
And we will fall off our spirit rock, our pride, having made our profits and killed our prophets—for they are antithetical.
May god bless us Esau’s portion atop our own stolen birthright. May we forward the light one name, in our accursedness.
And all the murderers stood and confessed!
“Amen!”