A Liturgy of Ash and Dust

Brazen spires and steeple fires

and ash Wednesday

and ash Thursday

and ash Friday

and ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Saturday is a smoldering coal and on Sunday we bathe in the bonfire glow, and then heap Monday and Tuesday upon the pyre.

Remember the sabbath day and keep it smoldering.

Fan the flame.

Prime the ignition.

Stoke the coals.

Fill the bellows with holy oxygen, breathed from the very tree of life, the air aware of the heir up there, hissing like a leaky balloon, like the hissing breath of the forked-tongue-one who licks the dust, and bites the heal and rears his ugly head to strike…

That poison-pocked-viper-bite breaks the apple-skin of Granny Smith, the grandmother of original sin, as sweet juices dribble from the first-mother’s chin, and overflow in the knowledge of the things below, because she will be like God!

God!

She’ll be like God!

She’ll be like, “God damn you for lying to me! God damn you for bringing deceit, for lying through your hollow teeth, for dangling tricks disguised as treats, and tarnishing the golden streets.”

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