PunkIsrael

It Hurt in My Chest

We would go here in high school to be frightened and somehow feel the awful presence of God.

I didn't know Mr. Rice died, but I think the world (or whatever tiny percentage of the world visits this blog) should see and remember the Cross Garden.

Defense

So we like end-rhyme. Sue us. We never
thought this free-verse crap would last forever.
And maybe we cover our confusion
about modern verse with bad allusions
to things barely remembered: satyrs, odes.
Maybe our syntax is hard to decode.
And likely, yes, we remain determined
to burn every poem since the march of Sherman.
We may occasionally be guilty
of trading humor for profundity,
and if that's not bad enough, we tend to
wear it as honor when we offend you
with sighing muses, appeals to Orion.
Well, give us a break. At least we're trying.

Jesus Kitsch

One day, I'd love to write a book about Christian kitsch, the product of sweaty, backseat love between somebody's idea of Christianity and good, old-fashioned, All-American consumerism. Usually these artifacts are tacky, and sometimes they attain the rank of baffling, but every now and then, they reach ironic proportions that boggle the mind.

Here's one I ran across just now: enjoy.