Our Father who art in Heaven…
Hallowed be thy name: the “Merciful Witness,” striding across the centuries, deathbeds scattering in Your wake; bless you for whispering from the center of this soul-spiraling wheel of incarnations, enticing us to sprawl shameless in this Victorian lounge chair we call “flesh,” stroke the velvet of the neighboring chair and relish the religion of our unborn, undying nature.
Deliver us from evil…
The shame of being born greasy, smeared with a sticky, cheese-like substance (inherited, no doubt, from a repentance-drenched deathbed) and forgive us our Blade Runner as we forgive those who Blade Runner against us. For surely we are all cynical cyberpunks, ghettoing our grey matter, walking numb to Your shepherding presence; fugitive tough guys glancing sideways at each other’s ageless innocence through a dark, dystopian haze.
For Thine is the Kingdom and the power and the glory…
Ah yes, the glory– issued like a mess kit, to every one of the glorious ground-born: Your right hand clan in this holy war. Commandos covered in cosmic Kevlar, a psycho-spiritual flack jacket of faith impervious to the shrapnel of projected self-hatred, bluetoothed together with surgically implanted night goggles that see in the sick blackness of the psychopath, a luminous outline of divine intent that foils our sick strut of forgiveness, forcing us to face how the ungodly work together for our good, mercilessly jabbing at us until we sprawl face-down at the feet of the Shepherding Presence– that dangerously charismatic cult figure beckoning us into a vast conspiracy of love.
Hunter Reynolds
May 2024
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