© J.D. Brayton 2015

SUNDAY HOMILY FROM BREEDLOVE

Dear God, I stand here before you, shoulders hunched, a rack of bones grappling sin everlasting. Reciting chapter and verse. Make my heart contrite, Oh Lord. Maketh me drown in the still waters.

Passionate, dedicated, correct, soulful and attired in clunky—> Awkward puce.

And our children, having been beautifully born, begin to ripen and die slowly before our eyes. They osculate, perpetrate an unnecessary discalced pink rabble, unable to hesitate or move forward without base sustenance regurgitating rote glory. Bought and sold dancing in tandem sung in a happy thundering hundreds, bringing twee jingle music to accompany the restless slaughter of human-cousinkind.

To some, a reward. Toast and jam. To others, pestilence and worms. I doubt The Supreme Creator is much more than a spent deity with a nearly empty bourbon bottle, tending a roulette wheel, his only begotten Son a 2000 year old blind piano player, nimble still, with only the black keys to pixilate.