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ACT 3
Patrick had spent the last two weeks at Saint Joseph West; specifically, there was a colonoscopy, a Barium-X-Ray, and Remicade I.V. infusion; moreover, he would have to be on pain medication, iron supplements, and anti-inflammatory drugs for the rest of his life due to a diagnosis of Ulcerative Colitis (Inflammatory Bowel Disease). Father Young had been giving him good counsel throughout the painful process. One more day, and Patrick was to be released. The Holy Catholic Church having offered to pay the insane bill. Too, Patrick had continued to claim his "unworthiness" concerning imbibing the Eucharist. So, in his hospital bed, drinking a cup of hot, green tea with hints of orange peel, Father Young and the esoteric Patrick were engaged in a bit of a theological symposium.
FATHER YOUNG
So, you believe President Reagan hinting to the possibility that the angels or aliens are already among us?
PATRICK
My step-father was a Southern Baptist Deacon, and he had taught me the apocalyptic Book of Revelation from the King James Bible--like this: REVELATION Chapter 12 (aspects): "And the great dragon was cast out; he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast with him." Totally Father Young--they're already here, monitoring, besmirching us. Like with Eve and Lilith. Non-Loving Sex is more wicked and dangerous than plant-based narcotics. King David, at the apex of his Messianic-Like Bardness offered personal accounts in the Book of Psalms about how wine and imported herb is necessary for medicine, nourishment, and mysticism. Yet the unjust legal system thieves away these things and incarcerate men for it, where they are then sexually-assaulted in the American Prison System by violent criminals, and yet raunchy sex is celebrated. We love to glimpse at curvaceous women poured into clothing and ornamented with pink pumps tramping through the Virgin Mary's Son's Holy Church. Is this not how it started with Eve? They're using our women against us, and us men--we are too hellbent on devilish discharge for mere elation than sacrificing that moment of ecstasy for trials and tribulations that will forge us eternal. Just me say'n . . . Father Young looked away in a grieving manner.
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ACT 2
Saint Joseph East Hospital, near 3:00 A.M.--laying, at the perplexing hour, in a low-lit room, being infused with I.V. Steroids and Fluids; plus, given Iron and Opiate-Derived Pain Medication, Patrick had been mumbling about needing a Priest to the loving physicians and modestly-garbed nurses in NIKE tennis shoes. Thus, after treatment, they offered a Catholic Priest--Father Young. He offered Patrick the Eucharist. Patrick refused, claiming he was not worthy; next, the defeated, sick man offered a machine gun-like burst of speech, giving the sum of his sins to the Roman Collar-wearing Priest, hoping to be given ascetic-laced penance.
PATRICK
16 years old I laid with a Sub-Eve, a Succubus. Slut-shamed her. Punched my best friend because he fornicated with her. Her too--in the stomach. She was carnally active with all my friends. She mutilated my genitalia with suburban witchcraft. Made me infertile. Then, I ran away from her. Testicles hurting. Thought it was testicular cancer. Celibate, ascetic, and praying for six years. Saw visions of the Queen of Angels, Mary. Wanted a friend. Contacted next door neighbor--she lived with her parents too. She blew me off as a loser; I was. When her parents went out of town--she invited men that she did not love to their house, and they spent some nights together; then, walking around the neighborhood in her bathing suit, all smiles. Too, her parents made me their yard slave. Forced labor upon me. Tried to pay me. Their daughter Molly would come over numerous times, but I hid from her, not wanting payment. They believed themselves better, and her mother mentioned it too--and they were better than me. I wrote her a poem. Still needed a friend after those six years of solitude, living in my parents' house. Next day--the Sheriff's Department encompassed my house. I had been dubbed a pervert for art. My attorney said Molly and her parents wanted me to suffer justice. The Ultra-Conservative Prosecutors too. I was trying to explain my crippled genitals and have synergy with her father's addictive personality--him a heavy drinker unable to handle the gift of wine--no problem for me save during football season when my team is losing. Molly would wave and smile at me when I drove past her afterwards. They had a party the night of my sentencing, celebrating my near suicide, of which they did not brainstorm, possibly blinded by my utter animal-like lack of educated consciousness. Was given a year of probation. Paid thousands of dollars in fees. Delivered newspapers at night because I was ill, having had to drop out in the 10th grade due to sickness. The 1st Amendment of God's Great United States was not mentioned to me by any attorney. There was no: 1) Fighting Words, 2) Clear & Present Danger; also, it was 3) Ambiguous. I broke no law. She came upon my suburban property and retrieved the poem after a meek phone call from me--the 2nd time I had ever called her in those near 6 years. I forced nothing upon them as they did me; nevertheless, I am a wicked monster. Continued with celibacy. Priests would laugh at my desire to have holy friends. The Church thought me a criminal and crazy, which I am, but isn't even a lunatic allowed the Blood of Christ at times? So, the Sub-Eve of my adolescence reappeared. Like in my youth she called me "fag" when I would not copulate with her. Confused--more stupid. Touched a man for one, single minute--no sodomy. No fluids or protracted action. Hated myself. Smashed my hand with a hammer, and I burned my face, spending the day at the Vanderbilt Burn Unit. Made Internet passes at two married women. Shot a video offering a millisecond of my disfigured genitalia to a saucy lass. These are my sins. This is my wicked life. Christ. So know it well Father Young--I am not worthy of the Eucharist.
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ACT 1
Summertime, under the big neon glow of moon-green cheese. Verily, here there is sanguine circumstance; specifically, a large intestine completely ulcerated and inflamed--a 41 year old man named Patrick, suffering from asymmetrical balding and a pale, vampire-like glow of the epidermis due to extreme blood loss, it crafting iron-deficiency anemia throughout his withered physiology, uses his Kerouac-like thumb to hitch his way across the Blue-Ridge Parkway, ultimately gaining magnanimous transport to THE ABBEY OF GETHSEMANI, which is mostly occupied by Catholic Monks under the divine influence of Saint Benedict and the Living Christ. Once there, within the pastoral geography of whiskey-luv'n Kentucky, Patrick slowly exits the vehicle, but not before giving his last George Washington to the mysterious driver. Next, Patrick approaches the Holy House; then, drops to the star-kissed ground, finding a state of unconsciousness.
A Slow-Motion Zombie, Patrick is dead in his dreams, though resurrected into the cognizant realm, awaking upon modest sheets in a petite room offering symbols of his Lord and Savior. There is an elderly man with kind, blue eyes hovering over him--this holy relic of an elderly man is armed with a cold wash cloth. He is patting Patrick's steamy countenance.
PATRICK
Am I alive sir?
BROTHER JOHN
You are son. What brings you here?
PATRICK
The mercy of Christ, sir.
BROTHER JOHN
Please--call me Brother John.
PATRICK
Okay, Brother John.
BROTHER JOHN
We had a former Army Medic, a novitiate here, take a look at you. He says you're dehydrated and might be anemic. Found plenty of blood in your trousers. What ails you son?
PATRICK
A demon. Succubus possibly--has being haunting me since my adolescence. Too, the name's Patrick.
BROTHER JOHN
Father Kelty, who kind of runs the show around here, has called an ambulance for you. It is on its way, having synergy with prayers from the other Monks.
PATRICK
An ambulance--I need Christ, not doctors.
BROTHER JOHN
Physicians are much like Christ. Healers as well.
PATRICK
But they cannot purge a soul from diabolical taunting.
BROTHER JOHN
No man save Christ is all things. Just let them help you son . . .
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"King David: Bard/Fighter"
Ethan Hawke in the free-forged movie DEAD POETS SOCIETY offered sublime synergy with a talented cast, this moving portrait highlighting Walt Whitman and carnal confusion; nevertheless, it showcased the clarity of FREE VERSE and ARTISTIC PRIVILEGE, demanding: Poetry belongs to all men, not just the intellectually-lubricated students of academia enslaved to the mechanics of conservative men. Regardless, to scribe the steel of poetry for the object of wooing women is a singular potency; specifically, one must be a fighter too.
King David, while entranced by the ladies, having that poetic impotence, was made Hulk-like due to a passionate and almost psychotic love for the God of Israel. And that saved him from being a one-dimensional soul reliant on mere verse alone. When King David was a mercurial boy and slayed the giant Goliath--it was simply due to a salacious rant against the Most Holy God. That's what drove the young bard to kill the foul-mouthed, monstrous deviant. But more than a symmetrical stone from a sling, yet Goliath's own two-handed blade used for the deathblow--a sanguine decapitation. Then, elegantly placed in a blessed armory--used in divine battles to protect his Messianic-like throne, which was sat upon for the poetic purpose of crafting magnanimous praise Northwards, towards the Celestial Realm.
Sincerely, Mark David King
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"Trans-Humanism Offers The Godhead"
Technological evolution is not blasphemous towards God; specifically, God is not a D & D Illusionist living in the clouds, and , hopefully, shampooing His platinum-white, Duck Dynasty Beard. Moreover, the Godhead has and uses technology, which would be dubbed "magical" to us mortals. For instance: The Virgin Birth--an axiomatic possibility of the day, meaning: Injection of hypodermic needle though the hymen, into the vaginal cavity and beyond, it, of course, being filled with millions of sperm. Too, Christ's Universal Seed carried across the conflicted cosmos by the Celestial Hierarchy till implanted by the Holy Ghost into the non-besmirched belly of the Virgin Mary.
And while my personal mysticism doesn't count since I'm a psychiatric patient--empirical evidence from my perspective and many a glorious glimpse at the unearthly glimmer of Arch-Angels proves them cosmically spawned by way of a bio-mechanical birth. Thus, we will spiritually evolve into Trans-Humanity--this does not mean the Godhead doesn't exist, nor that Mother Earth is the nucleus of creation. According to Saint Aquinas, Saint Albertus Magnus, and ancient astronaut-theorists, there is a cosmological community, and once we outshine our medieval normality; next, we will enter into its ranks. Then, merging underneath the Godhead, shinning with the sublimity of light, enjoying the Limbo of mid-grade neutrality, or enslaved to pure, demonic savageness.
"It never ends" I heard a bucolic drunkard inform the bartender. "They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast" offers HOTEL CALIFORNIA, re-forging the Book of Revelation's prophetic knowledge concerning the wicked Adder's monstrous escape after arch-angelic incarceration. We are not alone--yet are the "gods" King David mentioned in the Holy Scripture. No longer can we think things IMPOSSIBLE. I'm gonna drink a beer now.
Sincerely, Mark David King
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"Father Tribou: Masturbation"
In my 9th grade Sexual Wisdom Class @ Catholic High School For Boys, Father Tribou claimed: "Boys, if you get a bit aroused; next, slap or splash some cold water on your scrotum."
Indeed, masturbation, with the intention of really "giving it" to a sublime lass is adultery, entering her soul with your warped Love Rocket for mere self-serving elation; however, without weekly discharge of semen, a man can develop Seminal Backup or Epididymitis; as a result, you'll be walking with a wheelbarrow in front of you until the antibiotics kick in. Nevertheless, when releasing the seed, think of an android woman lacking consciousness or a soul--never a sentient cyborg, or it will be adultery.
Father Tribou still haunts my failures to the day. Due to Social Phobia and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics, I could not urinate or craft stool in public, forcing me to be a scholastic exile, dropping out and running away from home after merely a few weeks into my sophomore year. The strict teachers would never let me urinate during class save Brother Richard, a holy man; thus, I endured numerous urinary tract infections and bowel problems, ultimately getting Inflammatory Bowel Disease. There's nothing more weirdly cruel than having a tube shoved up your penile urethra or a spoon crammed beyond your rectum's privacy to remove shy feces. I guess I should have tried harder. I was a failure at Catholic High. Breaking two bones during my freshmen football year, fasting on liquids and solid foods, unable to hydrate or nourish myself due to mental illness. And to think @ Our Lady of Holy Souls School I was Captain of the Defense on our football team, and had more interceptions than the entire league combined. Oh well, I still can live through watching Tim Tebow play--oh wait, they screwed that guy.
So, unable to ever gel with society, I ride my motorcycle for clandestine purpose, always having the huff & puff of swift mercury to pull into an alley and relieve myself, though if caught--it would be incarceration by an ultra-conservative Nashville machine.
So, discharge is not a sin. But remember--picture an elegant android, not a fair maiden or scandalous cyborg armed with a fragile soul.
Me during my Catholic High years--short, buzz cut-like haircuts required to enter the private school:
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"She Talks To Arch-Angels: Annunciation"
Through the iniquitously-layered cosmic trash till onto Terra's fooled gleam--
Gabriel, a bio-mechanical, Arch-Angelic, God-Forged Machine
Offers ANNUNCIATION to Mary's Virginal Mien--
This all done in a matter of unearthly clean;
Indeed, enslaved Eve was besmirched by the Father of Lies, the Adder,
Yet Mother Mary crushes the reptilian matter
By way of an inviolate womb gelled with God,
Inspiring the Celestial Hierarchy to offer humble nod . . .
ANNUNCIATION CRAYON ART:
