Fall On Your Knees - Or How To Sing A Hymm Of Praise at 3:00am EST

So, ah, have you heard the pope is sick. I really hope he gets well. He is the leader of today’s Catholic church. The man who defends his faith against all challenges to that faith. And to be totally honest I have a particular vested interest in the pending death. I don’t want it to happen. Ya see when a pope dies there is this renewed Catholic vigour that sweeps the world. Lapse Catholics return to their faith, new people join, and then we have to tolerate another prolonged agony of death for the archaic institution. But if the pope can stay alive for another ten years and get more and more decrepit so too shall the gothic tomb of spirituality. AND THEN when the next whiff of white smoke sails into gods nostrils announcing the inheritor’s arrival he will be too late for the kingdom, the power, and the glory has crumbled.

So I had a dream the other night and in the dream I was trapped in a Roman Catholic Church--indeed a true nightmare. I had left my studies for the priesthood in the early '90s after my cock started demanding too much attention and I realized I like my dates to be at least 19 years old. What made this dream even worse was the fact that I had stopped being a Christian some ten years ago. Just when I thought it could get no worse, I was told I was about to be baptized again. Before doing so the obligatory first confession was in order. Alas I found a way out of this darkness: "Bless me father for I have NOT sinned…."

I'm a slut, a tramp, a whore--the holy trinity of debauchery--all things we are afraid to admit that make us bad little boys and girls. Shhhhh! We can only do or talk about those things with the lights off, late at night, by ourselves. Shame! If I wanted to be a good little boy I'd grow up and marry the girl next door, move to the suburbs, get a mini-van, and pump out 2.5 children. I've participated in the spilling of enough bodily fluids to populate a small Pacific island. I've lost count of how many times I've stepped onto the dance floor. Hey, wake up! Every bump and grind was a movement of two (well sometimes more and sometimes less). They all freely chose to mambo. I make no excuses or explanations or apologies. Every person I've been with has felt like they got their monies worth and then some. Yeah okay there was the occasional fuck up--human error. That's the picture. Look--or turn away in disgust. But your judging gaze no longer scratches me. Well, if you're cute and know what you want--let's "talk".

I'm out of the back seat. No longer a passenger in someone else's divine car, staring blankly out the window, watching everyone living lives that I so desperately want for myself. I've leapt over the front seat and kicked out the idiot behind the wheel (realizing he looked a bit too much like me). Then I realized what a shitty car he had and went and got myself an Alfa Romeo; the SUV can wait until 50.

Life is too much of a wild ride not to be roaring down the road--mad as a hatter--convertible top down, screaming into the night air--shirt open--the rain beating its tribal rhythms on my chest. Yes I am alive. Now I will prove it. I am going to go and preach my message to the multitudes. "It is your turn! Don't be me or the guy next to you. Be you, but be the you that is lurking deep inside wanting to howl at the moon. Dance in the rain. Kiss in public. And turn around and tell the person queuing behind you that if they don't stop pushing you they will land on their ass. And to the moron in front, 'Does it really take that fucking long to figure out you want a double tall decaf latte with soy and hold the foam?'"

So Father, this is the last time you will get this "I fall on my knees" for you. You no longer have this boy offering up his ass. It's got better places to be offered. I don't want your slaughtered lamb--unless it comes well-done and with mint jelly and oh, those little sweet potatoes. My guilt is now on my terms.

But dear padres, don't look at this ending as a failure. Failure is when something ends and you have learned nothing. I've learned a lot. The biggest Sunday school lesson I've learned is that a message of love has been corrupted by old men in black (and no that ain’t Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith--though they may be suited to battle this earth grown evil) looking backwards clinging to a tradition of power to make serfs of us all.

I am now attending the church of the beast with two backs. There I gladly fall on my knees and sing hymns of joy in the sweat stained cathedrals as my heart pulses to the cacophony of house and techno. There the Holy Communion is placed on my tongue promising true union with my brothers and sisters. There we raise our hands in glorious praise for we know God is made in our image. And!! He is a DJ. Here endeth the nightmare. I cum in peace.

(This was a piece I had published last year but was on my mind of late. The first paragraph is new just for alyx. oh and thes last sentences are new too.)