The Act of Making Love with the Dead

When I was in high school I wrote a four-page hand-written poem about the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It was written as an epic battle between God and Satan over the souls of men. Very Joseph Campbell collides with Carl Jung.

I titled it, “Necrophilia.”

In part, I thought I was being very shock factor funny, but also I imagined I was being quite deep. Truth be told I was deep, but more deep in bullshit than deep in philosophical musings.

Despite the name I was proud of this particular creative act. It was the first poem I had written in a long time where I didn’t kill myself, or longed for death, or was being gruesomely murdered by the cruelty of loved ones. I mean somebody did die in it, but he came back, so it’s okay, right?

I know back home in the back of some closet, in some box, probably stuffed in some folder, this poem still exists. I also know that by the time I get back home I will have once again completely forgotten about it.

It’s better this way.

I’d rather not find it.

I’d rather it stay buried away in the back of that some closet in that some box in that some folder because I know that if I read it now with the honesty I have to face myself, I’ll see that it was less about Jesus and more about me. I don’t want that.

I’d like to remember that there was one time when I was in high school that I wrote a four-page hand-written poem about the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. That I found some moment when I turned away from the earth shattering shore crashing waves inside of me, looked up, and believed in a light that was stronger than my dark.

I know I was just riding the high brought on by the charismatic cult of personality I called family. I know that I was tripping on the insincerity that came along with every hit after hit of that shit stained Bible paper they gave out to keep us complacent and compliant.

Now –right now- as I consider the ruthless truth of that four-page hand-written poem about the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, it was less of a poem and more of a macaroni picture offered as tribute for the pseudo-approval I got from those I believed were an extension of my already brutal family.

These are the ghosts that haunt me; things I can’t run from. I think the title of that poem was less of a playing with words and more of a prophecy because the more I replay these memories, the more I find that I am fucking myself.

In a way, it is a lot like making love to the dead. I just wish I liked it a little more.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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