Tuesday, January 26, 2010

To a lapdog in a pink frilly jacket

My ancestors scrambled to invent fire, weapons, walls, villages, all in a desperate attempt to avoid having their throats torn out by the shadowy packs of your ancestors.
Cat’s speed and cunning, bear’s strength and jaws, snake’s cold and calculating strike, and man’s ability to coordinate an ambush by the entire pack at once - all belonged to the wolf in his day.
And the superhuman powers of the monsters which still haunt our nightmares - vampire’s fangs, ghost’s deathly stealth, demon’s inhuman howl, bogeyman’s remorseless patience, basilisk’s stare, goblin’s swarming hordes, Archfiend’s cunning, werewolf’s all-too-human bloodthirst - all are but pale memories of your long-ago reign.
But now I see you emasculated: your knife-edged intelligence blunted to marshmallow; your terrible strength brought so low that a rat could eat you alive; your baying now a squeak; your balls cut off for Man’s convenience; your Pack taken from you; your majestic pelt shorn so you must keep warm in a pink frilly jacket that a twelve-year-old ballerina would scorn for being too girly. The few wolves that still live do so only at Man’s sufferance, and only in places that Man has not yet chosen to inhabit.
O Man’s best Friend, Man’s oldest Enemy - I behold the final humiliation of a vanquished foe, and I feel no triumph, only pity and shame.

And also fear.

For when I see what Man once was, once strove to be - the godlike strength, wisdom, courage, love, and self-sacrifice displayed by our ancient heroes – I can’t help comparing to the heroes of today, as seen on T.V., and thinking of wolves reduced to Chihuahuas.
When we have bred out all our own power, intelligence, and ability to live as a Pack - in favor of docility and good looks - what new species might arise to usurp us as the alpha, the lords of creation? Dare we hope they will be kinder masters than we are?

© John M. Munzer

Monday, January 25, 2010

But I Love Him

He’s very charming, when he wants to be. He’s very stylish, very elegant, very handsome, lean and muscular, and moves with such grace that you can’t help admiring him. And he can be genuinely warm and affectionate, when he remembers to do so. The children love him, and when he thinks of them, he’s very good with them. He plays their favorite games with them with even more energy than they do, and then cuddles with them for hours. I think he loves me, even though I know he’s using me. And I’m sure he loves the children, though he doesn’t know how to say it. And I love him.

So I’ve never had the heart to throw him out, despite the fact that he’s bigoted, foul-tempered, sexist, lazy, and utterly selfish. He doesn’t do anything around the house, but gets mad if I haven’t kept it perfectly clean. He’s never worked a day in his life. He eats the food that I worked for, sometimes even grabs food off my plate, and never says thank you. He’s a terrible bully, always picking on the small and weak. He’s attacked me several times, and once he even left the children bleeding, stalking away indignantly as if they deserved it. But I love him.

He’s a thief, and has that particular blend of stupidity and cunning that most thieves have. He doesn’t even steal anything valuable – which is why he gets away with it – he just steals for the thrill of stealing. He keeps me up all night worrying about where he’s gone, and what kind of crowd he’s running with, and whether the fight he has tonight will be the one that kills him. And when he does come home, he never even bothers to explain the new cuts and bruises – just gives me a contemptuous glance when I ask, flops onto the couch, and sleeps until the next night, when he goes out and does it again. Once he was so far gone when he came home that he peed all over the living room floor. But I love him.

I’ve heard rumors of the children he’s fathered and abandoned to live in the streets, and I can’t help believing them. He’s even been accused of several killings; and though I’ve seen how gentle he can be, I also know his temper, and I wonder. And yet, I really do love him.

But it’s two o’clock in the morning, and I swear to God, if he doesn’t stop meowing RIGHT NOW, I’m going to bring him back to the animal shelter and leave him there!

© John M. Munzer

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Woe Unto Thee

(Considering what Jesus had to say to the politicians of His day, what might He say to ours?)

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You preach sexual morality, but cheat on your own wives; you preach family values, but ignore your own children as you work 70-hour weeks to buy yourselves better cars and computers. You take the money from the schools, but make sure your pet lobbies don’t lose any funding. And you are surprised when your children rebel against you and tell you they hate you!

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You honor God with your lips, but worship Mammon with your lives. You carry large Bibles for show, but your hearts are with your checkbooks. You profess to follow Jesus, who wandered the cities homeless, but you throw the homeless out of your cities, and demolish whatever shelters they manage to build.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You tell people what they want to hear to get their votes, and then spend your terms of office working only to ensure that nothing threatens your re-election campaigns. You vote for or against measures based on what will get you re-elected, or what will benefit your own businesses, rather than what will be good for the community. You say your concern is to create jobs, but all you care about is keeping yours.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You sit in air-conditioned offices and send men ten thousand times your betters to die in the desert; you tell them to save the oppressed abroad, while you continue to oppress the weak at home.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You gleefully oppressed women and minorities until the sympathies of the voters changed; and you are still racist and sexist in your hearts. You are still the haven of rich white men, though you allow the right quotas of women and minorities for show. When a black man is in a figurehead position, and his every move is blocked by filibuster, have minorities truly been given a voice?

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You hold the vulnerable for ransom with every proposed tax increase, and threaten that they will suffer unless we pay; but you do nothing to change the factors that make them vulnerable. You don’t even try to find real solutions – for if you did, how would you blackmail us into giving you more money? And yet, somehow, you never lack funds to advertise how desperately you need our money.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You live on human credulity, feed on the hopes and fears of those who work for a living. You grow rich and fat on your professed commitment to help the poor and hungry, and leave them poor and hungry. Will you escape the wrath to come? Will He not ask why, when He was hungry, you did not feed Him? Woe, ten thousand times woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites!

© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

The Wordsmith

I will be a wordsmith, crafting carefully, creating the tool or the weapon best suited to the purpose at hand. I will beat, break, burn lifeless lumps of everyday ugliness into things of dazzling, deathless beauty. By dark and potent alchemies I will transform leaden sorrow into golden greatness. With iron grasp I will mold the chaos, bend it, force it to take shape on the anvil of what is Real. In furnace-hot pain and desire I will forge strong words, and temper them with cool contemplation. Scalpel-sharp I will grind them against the rough edges of truth, and they will sever diseased falsehoods.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will be careful, careful with the weapon-words! Sometimes no scalpel will make things right, sometimes only a sword will do. But once weapons are made, they can be taken and wielded by fools, madmen, those who LIKE using weapons. Follow the rivers of ink spilled by men of ideas, and they always lead to the oceans of blood spilled by men of action.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will sometimes grow weary of hammering halberds and sharpening swords. I will sometimes work not in steel but in silver, showing forth the holiness of beauty with intricately interwoven tendrils of living words, the very breath of the Creator. I will make worlds, wake desire, partake in His delight, create simply because such things ought to BE.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will have power; because humanity makes the world what it is, but words make humanity what it is. I will use the power responsibly; for the words are a sacred trust, the crafting a deep magic which makes the world anew in the image of the smith.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be a god, singing new things into being.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be an animal, howling the things that have been too deep to say.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be a flame, flowing fierce and free, turning base matter into pure light.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be all these things;
For when I am a wordsmith, I will be a man.

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, January 16, 2010

The Hammer of God

When God walks the earth, He comes to town bearing a hammer, holding in human hands the hammer of God.
The wrath of God is a hammer that BELLOWS – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! – beats DOWN, batters DOWN, bashes DOWN, breaks DOWN barriers that brought bondage; destroys dark, decrepit dungeons; lays waste the walls, lets in light that love may live.
The love of God is a hammer, carried by Christ the Carpenter, creating, carefully crafting, repairing, rebuilding, restoring, renewing. The love of God is a hammer, whose bone-breaking blows come crashing, crushing carpal capillaries of Christ crucified, let loose the life-blood that His beloved may live.
The power of God is a hammer, to pulverize that which has brought pain, to beat the sword into a plowshare, and to build a new thing, a holy house of healing and help for all humanity.
Raise high the hammer! For when you do, God walks the earth again.
Raise high the hammer! For when you do, you become the hands of God.
Raise high the hammer, and start swinging! The walls of our hate will not stand against it, and the temple of love demands to be built anew.
Raise high the hammer, the hammer of God.

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Strange Bedfellows

(Warning: lots of swearing in this one. If you find swearing offensive, you may wish to skip it. However, it's worth considering this point: What does it really mean to take God's name in vain? Is it about cussing? Or is it about claiming to act in God's name, on God's behalf, when really one is acting on one's own behalf?)

They say politics make strange bedfellows.
Now, I really don’t mean to be crude,
But when religion and politics get into bed
Religion always gets screwed.
“We’re the side God votes for!”
That’s what they want us to believe.
As if they gave a rat’s ass about God!
Yet the voters are deceived.
They say they're the right side in a holy war,
Invoking the Name of God.
So men without morals lead moral crusades,
Which seems to me rather odd.
“Vote liberal, if you care about compassion!”
“Vote conservative, if you love what’s right!”
“Democrat, if you want social action!”
“Republican, for the sake of the Light!”
“God wants you to save the unborn child!”
“God wants you to help the outcast and poor!”
So every politican is a pimp,
Religion becomes his whore.
The pimps line their pockets,
Then next on the dockets:
Whatever new cause will make them rich.
The work of the Church has been left in the lurch
So we can be Machiavelli’s bitch.
Strange bedfellows, they say, but if I may,
I’d like to complain about my bad luck.
The pure truths I love about God above
Have been tied to the bed and fucked.
© John M. Munzer

Friday, January 1, 2010

New Year's Paradox

There is nothing new under the sun; and yet all things are made new.