I felt the Church had not been made for me,
but I had been made for it,
for I was virgin-pure.
I had saved myself,
rather than get saved.
I’d been a provincial girl,
begat by a tortured piano player,
groomed by a tortured soul
who loved the sound of the
piano player’s voice.
Marriage, in the Church,
was an inevitability,
children, a possibility.
My purity was prized,
in a way,
even more so,
for I could always
“go & sin no more,”
but if I was barren,
such a thing was up to God
or science to sort out.
Marital, procreative sex was considered beautiful;
sexual sin, second only to murder,
& I wondered if, in God’s courtroom,
adultery would be akin to manslaughter.
David had provided shelter to his lover
& her children,
shelter to those who had raised him,
though it would be I
who would shelter 2 of his children,
prematurely evicting one of them.
So I went back through the poems I’d written this month and chose five titles (hence the underlines), implementing them in my newest creation.
The Town that Cried Atonement
She lived in this stranger world
where a life, in 7 days,
ended not with a day of rest,
but in an atonement day.
Everything would be closed,
and everyone in the town of Cantonement
would meet at the Universal Church,
where the newest child sacrifice
would be made—
for all babies were born into sin,
but the unborn were worshipped
as little angels.
For they saw this as not only saving their souls,
but saving the planet,
their stem cells saving
those who saved the planet.
These little beings had no voice,
but were the property
of the vessels in which they gestated.
But then Vera Donna
chose to be selfish, they said,
and retain her property rights—
so that her property
and perhaps yield more
after its own kind
after her kind—
the closest thing to
And when she told them the story
of That Final Atonement,
there was joy in the limitless grace
that released this town
from these bloody offerings,
reminiscent Old Testament times.
He preached to the masses
of their filthy rags of righteousness,
but it was when he preached the “Happy Texts”
that his people saw less the ugliness of man,
& more the beauty of the Divine.
They were not found in Salt Lake,
nor in the Church of Scientology.
They were not found in buildings,
nor in any book or prophet.
To know Him
was to know His Words–
words that had been translated
so many times,
that the person who sought Him
tried to make sense of what was left.
God was everywhere,
whether or not we chose to
drink Him in.
His DNA infiltrated our cells—
He had taken His image,
& made copies—
worth more than original
every one of which He paid
the highest price for;
though some would sell themselves
to the lowest bidder.
I’ve lived a thousand deaths such as these,
but the only two that will matter in the end,
will be the one that separates me from this earth,
& the one that reunites me with the God
whose work behind the scenes of my life
I recognize as per His direction.
When they eradicated all of the mental defects,
they eradicated the physical.
When they had done that,
they eradicated the ugly,
but in place of beauty,
there was only coldness,
& no one left to save
or be saved.
“For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant,
and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness;
and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.”