Religion: Accessory or Original Factory Part?

September 27, 2010 at 10:21 pm | Posted in religion | Leave a comment
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I wasn’t raised in churches, my nose clasped between Gospels. In my rather atheist or at the very least agnostic britches, I still found a need to poke and prod religion and figure out what makes it tick. Why is it so polarizing? Why is it a staple to some regions, some families, and a distasteful hobby to others? Rather than concern myself with fucking it and forgetting it – finding my butt on a pew or mattress come Sunday morning – I wanted to know why Religion sticks in my craw.

Religion wasn’t one of the “parts included” when I was growing up. It wasn’t an accessory I sought to acquire until high school during the final course in a long line of religious requirements. More correctly, I began to wonder if religion was an accessory or a missing factory part.

In my customary slumped, unladylike posture I listened as the teacher marked up the blackboard with Karl Marx’s philosophy of religion.

The previous year I’d written a paper for Psychology class examining whether religion is a figment of our imaginations. I just did an extensive Yahoo search of my old email address and was distressed to find no remnants of that paper. As my memory is equivalent to that of a goldfish’s – 3 months – on a good day, I can’t remember what my exact conclusions were.

Philosophy of Religion was my way of peaking behind the curtain and unmasking Oz.

On the surface, Marx wrapped my answer with a giant velvet bow. The opium of the people. Flowers adorning our chains. Religion is an addiction, the magic smoke to the law-abiding layman. It’s the flowers that mask the chains weighing us down in worldly suffering. Suffering. That vertex upon which religion rests, sending us into the ranks of believers and suspect. Why is there suffering if God is so good? If God is good. We prioritize. We’re realistic.

Point A: Worldly Suffering exists. If A is true, then what is the point of life? Where’s the end? Why does it exist? To balance that equation, we have Point B: religion and all its trial, tribulation, and redemption. Since A is true then B must be true.

“If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” (Voltaire)

If religion is the chute that activates when we’re born and begin our decent into life, what happens when that chute doesn’t activate for some of us? We’re left to find a different means of landing safely.

Despite seeing religion as a symptom rather than a solution for humanity’s suffering, Marx does not condemn religion.

“Criticism has plucked the imaginary flowers on the chain not in order that man shall continue to bear that chain without fantasy or consolation, but so that he shall throw off the chain and pluck the living flower. The criticism of religion disillusions man, so that he will think, act, and fashion his reality like a man who has discarded his illusions and regained his senses, so that he will move around himself as his own true Sun. Religion is only the illusory Sun which revolves around man as long as he does not revolve around himself.”

He condemns religion’s proffer of supernatural fixes to suffering. Religion, as i see it, does not encourage its believers to accept or even see reality. Religion is a matrix, engrossing its believers in a fabricated reality where every action and thought is mediated by a supposed kingpin running a fairytale endgame.

I understand that religion holds societies together, sewed in the seams of our justice, morals, our DNA.

But I don’t understand why we can’t pluck the living flower and live morally.

What disillusions me is the church’s grasp on religion. I think we need to wrest faith away from the church; turn away from religion and embrace spirituality.

Unnamed Angel #1.

If you

want motley lives:

though I’m but a Pearl Gate

pantryman, grant faith a stay of


-2010 BMC. Cinquian.


Obscenity is an Art: defending profanity in poetry.

December 17, 2008 at 3:46 pm | Posted in poetry, school, writing | 4 Comments
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There’s an art to sh*t, f*ck, p*ss, c*nt, c*cksucker, motherf*cker, t*ts.

Since its conception art has battled society over what the artists saw as freedom of expression and what concerned leaders labeled as obscenity. Painters, playwrights, filmmakers, authors, and poets. All have suffered from a sensitive few that mount their soapboxes and claim to be society’s protectors.

These few have no sense of subtext; their creativity is oppressed by a narrow-mindedness designed to cull impurity before it might offend. They immediately declared photographer Bill Henson’s 2008 exhibit featuring photographs of naked children as pornographic. In 1957, these purity watchers slapped Allen Ginsberg with an obscenity trial for his poem “Howl”.

Continue Reading Obscenity is an Art: defending profanity in poetry….

FACEs are only on my piano.

November 18, 2008 at 8:29 pm | Posted in writing | Leave a comment
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My life is pixelated, populated by unfathomable faces, persons unknown.
All day I walk around looking at shoes, hanging my head like it’s chained to Hell, avoiding eye contact as if it conducts a new strain of the black plague.
Perhaps wondering, pondering the self-censored cardboard cutouts that frump into and out of my life morning day and night.
Ask me what she looks like, what she wears. I couldn’t say.
Remember her? Him? Them? It?
The back of my mind works overtime to keep meaning at a distance. Glasses are my brain’s way of saying Don’t Look Now.
I don’t. Without the tinkered lenses everything geometrizes into the basic shapes. Lamp-ish, bed-ish, friend-ish. With glasses, things get complicated.
Pixels, black boxes over faces. Whatever it takes to show you that I’m not the friend to cry to. My shoulders are too low too broad too water-resistant.
The nutgraf clearly coincides with another L word Funk. I’d like to slap some fictional characters around, and then maybe start with my future self. Stupid things clamor to cram my horoscope yet I still run home to fortune cookies at night, not sophisticated enough to chopstick my rice, not desperate to get drunk and dial for extended metaphors i can’t afford.

land before time.

October 29, 2008 at 11:42 pm | Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment
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Maybe there were dinosaurs. Probably sea cucumbers and Christmas tree needles. Only in the land before time there is no Christmas. There is no twenty fifth. There is just time. getCurrentTime() >> 997345463746392384684575730475730573785026346590 <time units> have elapsed since “startTime”. Why thank you, ambiguous pendulum for maybe something useful. What I really want to know is: why Not? Continue Reading land before time….

vaccinate yourself from the world.

October 11, 2008 at 8:31 pm | Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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west coast ringer
L.A. blinger
bring her or give me
the mother fucking finger
two cents heads up
penny wars butts up
schlep them battles to
a body that prattles less
cares more Congress only pays
the whores
Shore (sure) Kleenax Chlorax
formaldehyde in cellared wine
makes for cyanide to faintly minds
wrench please
wenchs read corner humping
young men
old guys on mattresses
and roaches right
trenchcoat coke
snorting chalk walk the stingy drug walk
killing people with every buy dont know why
they dont vaccinate for shit like this.

This Fork and I are Biodegradable.

September 28, 2008 at 10:00 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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favorite lines?

There is a girl who sits across the universe and stares at me. I can feel it. This tingling in the back of my eyes, but I don’t know what she’s thinking. I do the best I can, which is stare back across the continent, oceans, people doing people things in their respective time zones, crossing borders, dying for Someone’s God Knows What. On the Universal Tabletop we barter with the world. Like Gods playing craps for natural disasters we bluff until we know each other’s tell, an intimacy few people really know. We hate it. Want to take it back. Don’t want to know when she’s lying, don’t want to know why she’s staring at me like I’ve become a metaphor for death and dying and I’ve claimed her favourite grandmother before her time.

The earth’s core is thick with attempts to dig into China. No success as of yet. It doesn’t stop young children setting out to shores with shovels and a mind to make it through to the other side. Pop out in the street or the great wall perhaps and this will be my secret tunnel through the world. The can to string to can tree house communications system draws cobwebs now. Belongs in a museum.
The flowers on my windowsill are dying, petals lying dead on the sill. Still I haven’t watered it or thrown it away. The dried out stems sticking out of the Perrier 10 cents recyclable refundable. They really should be thrown out. In my free time I brush the fallen petals into my hand and drop them in the trash can. Waste tells a lot about a person. Like reading palms, read my trash. What am I like? I eat fruit rollups, got a package in the mail, wrote a note and discarded it. You, my dear. Well, let me see. You like junk food as evidenced by this nutterbutter wrapper. You went to a SLAM poetry event recently, see here this postcard? You’re forgetful, this is a notice that you missed your last appointment. Dear, you will graduate college with an unchanged procrastination habit, single, and one hangover that you definitely won’t tell your kids about. You’ll still be wearing Disney underwear though. You’re a lost cause there.

I wish I wish upon a star to die before the past tense catches up with me. Don’t want to be dying under sheets and daytime drama. Duck duck goose don’t want to know my noose. Bug off until I say I’m ready to quit my lying, writing, sneezing, laughing, Firefly watching.

How to ace an abomb final: The poem that saved my high school honor roll career.

June 26, 2008 at 8:02 pm | Posted in school | Leave a comment
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1. A mulligan is a redo
2. Curiosity killed the cat; satisfaction brought it back.
3. Charon (Greek mythology) ferried the dead to the underworld.
4. Dresden was a German city firebombed to oblivion by the Allied forces in WWII

Curiosity Killed The Cat.

The little girl asked,
What is a planet?

Well, little girl, ask that club
that kicked out Pluto
like it was a drunk and bumming soul
that had no place in high society.

Science will balk,
but file a civil suit
and give Pluto back its class ring.
They are the bouncers that –
with their brass brains and reason –
stand outside the Earthbound arches
duck duck goosing answers of their choosing
to the common man
while we
Jane and John Doe
take our Flintstone vitamin C
and know what they want us to know.

Little girl ask, Who are they? Continue Reading How to ace an abomb final: The poem that saved my high school honor roll career….

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