Perhaps I was created by a God who got bored and who was seeking some way to entertain himself. He came up with the idea of creating a planet and populating it with people who he have a strong disposition to accept religious teachings without question. He then went to different groups and said, “You are God’s chosen children. You have a right and a duty to rule over the world. All others are infidels who should be either converted or killed.”

When he was done, he sat back in His heavenly recliner with his heavenly beer and potato chips and watched the unfolding drama of Survivor Earth, and he saw that it was good. Or, at least, he was entertained.

Would I prefer to be a toy built to generate conflict and drama for the sake of entertaining some God?

It would be true, in such a case, that I was created for a divine purpose. However, what matters is the quality of the purpose, not its source. In this case, the purpose has a particularly low quality.

Not only would I prefer NOT to have such a purpose, I would go so far as to actively thwart God's purpose if that were the case, and would count my life as having meaning in doing so. I would work to promote cooperation and well-being over conflict and suffering and, if this went against the purpose of my Creator, then so be it. These purposes still have quality, regardless of whether they are consistent with or in conflict with whatever purposes some God might have in mind.

So, not only is it not the case that would prefer to have a divine purpose. Depending on the quality of the purpose, there are cases in which I would be actively opposed to having a divine purpose. Again, i do believe, what matters is not the source of a particular purpose. What matters is the quality of a purpose.

Its a sick world, sick,sick,sick.

"Have you ever seen God?"
-a mandala. A symmetrical angel.

Felt? yes. Fucking. The Sun.
Heard? Music. Voices.
Touched? an animal. your hand.
Tasted? Rare meat, corn, water,
& wine.

Have a drink, my friend, have a drink before you pass.

For you will, you will pass away and I on the corner shall see you.

I on the corner who sit and drink, while you walk in the sun.

The sun burns you. But walk you will, and i will drink.

I do nothing, you will say.

I serve no purpose, I am lost.

You strut like a headless chicken, in the heat you cackle.

I am lost.

There is no haze, no daze, I see clearly.

But I am lost.

I can see the light, but i can't feel the heat.

Thank you, stranger.

Now you must leave, and i must drink.

Its a sick world, sick,sick,sick.

my trip

We walk, our cold shadows echo each other in the darkness, yet we choose not to hear.
As when souls are lost in the dark, they can not hold hands; they only creep in fear.
The man who is scorned and reviled is usually the one who can see
the truth, the amazing silly key to the mystery that is but greek to you and me.

Feed me, the stoned philosopher says. Feed me and all will be well.
It's all a scam here, welcome to my little slice of hell.
Half-open eyes. Half-empty lighters. These dichotomies mildly amuse.
Opaque eyes and a flourescent mind tell tales of use and abuse.

The marble woman with no nose sashays out to numb me
I walk her halls with a vapid smile.
Each door she keeps with a crooked grin of half- curled lips, so hot.
I see dreams of me and her, my instrument sheathed in her stone.
She winks, i blink, she flickers, i want to hear her moan.

A tree sways
and i run.
I am lonely, and my mind
is in the gutter where the water flows.

I have sprinkled
sweet wine on a cold lawn,
and i run
as time across rain
or a leaf
to the wet grass.

You run the arithmatic so smooth,
but I walk, and the morning is imperfect.
You smile, but wire tangles in the leaves.

Last night i sat in the command post
connecting telephonic messages.
the line was overloaded
and i drank too much coke.
I had to piss in the dark.
even the stars were imperfect.

Everything is olive, drab, mundane --
What can he do?
Thats my trip, baby.
Oh yeah.
Thats my trip.









Its a sick world, sick,sick,sick.