“This car will be abandoned in case of Rapture”
This bumpersticker was not uncommon
in the Saint Louis of my youth.
It was 1980 and I was being fostered by folks
that had shiny new car hearts,
and Baptismal swimming pool souls,
and wanted to help a
troubled teen.
A recently returned runaway.
A California Iris Steensma, that had
brunched with Travis Bickle
one two
many times.
For all their Preacher had taught them about Satan,
they sure didn't know the Devil when she
curtsied before them, anxious to get inside their
beautiful home,
complete with Japanese sports-car driving piano prodigy.
Japanese sports-car driving piano prodigy
smiled as bright as the sun,
and had liquid brown eyes that told you
you were going to have a lot of fun.
And as for their Preacher
and his big pointy steeple,
when I opened the door,
I knew enough of his men
by their belt buckles and
badges.
They were kneeling,
this time, instead of me.
None seemed to recognize me.
Or at least, none of them looked
anywhere near me.
I was invisible,
not unknown.
I was on the rebound
from my break up with drugs.
A Cali acid trip
that had gone so
horribly bad.
A trip where I could see
that everything about me
was evil. And I was
the Devil.
The mark of the Beast
in the birthmark on my forehead,
scar on my right hand,
numbers in my birthdate,
and the misery that was
my life.
I had wandered the streets of
Orange County, breaking through throngs
of men so desperate
they knew the taste of
weeks of walking in the desert heat
without water,
Only to arrive here and find
their thirst could not be quenched.
Angry, parched, dangerous
men.
But I was the Queen of Hell, that day,
so I was not afraid of them
(or the junkies that collected in front of
the blood for cash and methadone clinics),
like I usually was.
I was armoured in fear
on that Lucifer in the firestarting
diamond sky day.
I was engulfed in flames no one could see,
and therefore I was fire retardant
to the angry sparks surrounding me.
A few months and six states later
another bad trip. And another.
Paranoid freak outs. Flashbacks.
So I had gone looking for Jesus, who had come back from the dead
and was known to help
junkies and zombies.
Surely he could help me.
When I could not find him
among the Romans
or the Jews,
I tried his followers.
The ultra-religious and faithful church goers,
would be without prejudice or judgment,
as Jesus himself had been,
I thought. Jesus would be my new pill.
I would be like Mary Magdalene
and be reformed, among the Christ-like.
Instead, I discovered
life was a blood debt
paid with your soul.
F odder for a
voracious God-machine
that needed assembly line
believers, farmed in
white Christian wombs.
My foster family,
both father and mother,
full son and cousin son,
were deeply curious about my
hopechest of the future.
My dreams of how many babies I would make
with my own, personal Messianic Prince Charming.
And just how did father and sons look?
Despite my life on the street,
so far from home, and all alone,
I was naïve. Innocent.
I was 14.
I did not understand
why the interest in
musing about what sort of
children I would like to have,
and man I should marry,
was so intense.
I did not understand
the way I did not
understand
“Blue Balls” were NOT
a real medical condition,
and further, that I was NOT
responsible for either their
occurrence
or healing.
My first crush in grade school
had been a black boy.
Without thinking, or perhaps still
believing that I was among others
that truly believed in the Nazarene's
law of love for all people,
I answered the questionnaire with
honesty:
“A boy child, black like his father,
but with blue eyes, like mine.”
The car stopped abruptly.
Pulled over.
The puckered, anal “OH”
of their blood son's mouth
told me that I had passed
teenage rebellion
and gone straight to-
You know?
I was lectured.
Sternly.
I protested.
Sterner still.
I maintained my resistance.
I am a contrarian, but further,
I knew I was right.
Love sees no colour.
One reason I had runaway.
A reason I will tell you now.
Only because I know he is dead and gone.
I ran away
to getaway
from the Aryan Brotherhood wanna-be.
A felon
I fancied
because I was 13 and did not know anything
about the world
or men.
I did not know
how much hate one human heart
could hold.
The word “nigger” was not unknown to me,
but I could never again hear it
without feeling its full use and measure,
the weight of it when issued from
the mouth of a hater.
I never wanted to hear the word again.
When I would not comply,
would not consent,
would not listen to reason,
I was threatened.
That day, pulled over on the side of the road
(ironically, next to Eden Seminary,
God's garden here incarnated as a
large field oft-used for Sunday soccer games
by the DeBurgh boys,
who always had both
black and white players),
I was threatened by
"good" Christians.
They believed that Jesus had died for their sins.
And they owed him big time for that.
They believed in the Rapture.
And they were ready to leave their home
and cars,
and boats,
and vacation property,
and horses
and diamond tennis bracelets.
And their church.
But not my womb, even though I hadn't been
"saved".
My womb would be going with them.
It was God's
property.
And all that stuff they believed in,
well,
it wasn't for everyone. Heaven was
white only.
And if I didn't believe, that didn't matter.
They would save me from myself.
I would be harmed,
but more importantly,
any black man that thought
to put his trunk on my roots
would be hanged from
his limbs.
I found something that day
that I would know inside of myself
forever.
Something that would show me the way to myself,
to my true heart.
I cannot discount the value
I received
from those racist, hypocritical assholes
threatening me.
When submission is certain,
and rebellion is not an option,
subterfuge is called upon.
So I smiled.
I smiled a beautiful smile.
A blinding smile,
of comprehension.
And said I understood.
And I did.
It was not spoken of again.
Certainly I never brought it up.
I thought about it, though.
Everytime I
fucked their sons,
drank their wine,
smoked their cigarettes,
stole their money,
and nuzzled their asshole with my nose,
reaming out excuses and lies
and false gratitude for their hospitality.
Eventually they found out
my true nature.
I was cast out,
like the serpent;
but by then I'd lost interest
in blood and liquid sun,
japanese sports cars, and
piano prodigies,
anyhow.
Ironically, at the time of this occurrence-
the day I uttered my childhood dream of
marrying the boy that sat next to me in
third grade
and always picked me for kickball
even though I was a terrible athlete-
I'd never had
sex with a black man.
So I guess I should thank those Good Christians for that, too.
Love no longer had any limitations
for me. In fact, the opposite. I set out
to conquer the nations.
(And I knew to always keep it forest hidden,
and no trees were ever disturbed.)
The Rapture is a promise
that I've fervently hoped to see fulfilled,
ever since that day.
Lord God in Heaven
Hallowed be thy Name
Thy Kingdom Come
Thy Will be Done
Please take your righteous from the earth!
I do not care to attend any Heaven they inhabit!
Leave me here to burn with the other sinners!
Leave me here to burn until my skin becomes
black!
I, a witch of Endora,
that summons the Soloman,
and bare breasted
holds high the Priestess snakes,
I applaud Harold Camping,
just as I
Applaud ANY
Priest, Mage, Sorcerer, or Witch
heralding his/her God's
Presence and Power.
Bring it, God.
Bring it on
You big fucking failure of a Deity.
If you were worth your weight in
golden idols
You would have made good
on your Word,
just like the old days:
fire rain, salt pillars, parting seas,
and smiting sinners with mighty blows.
You used to be
so hard core
you even sacrificed your own son!
Quite stunning.
But today you couldn't even be bothered
to produce a few earthquakes,
or reanimate a few zombies.
The Satan powered blow torch up my ass,
as promised by some of your
Believers on my
Facebook End of the World After Party,
was nothing more than
a sunburn
from standing outside too long
at my friend's garage sale.
Then again, perhaps
you do know
what you are doing.
Far worse than the red skin of my arms is that
all of the Raptee's remain.
Which, in a way,
is its own Hell,
to be left among us
race-mixing, sinners.
I made peace with
being the Queen of Hell
that day I wandered among
Its thirsty inhabitants.
However,
all those Neo Cons
and Fundies,
like that Good Christian family
(fuckers),
disappearing from the earth?
Paradise.
Nirvana.
Dare I say it?
Heaven.
THE END
Copyright 2011
Written on the occasion of Harold Camping's Rapture prediction for 21 May 2011
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