Pastor Holy Joe

Hey leader of the frock that was a rock, a role model all could aspire to, outstanding member of the community,  mr. family man with the devoted wife and two and a half kids...pastor role model, he spoke in tongues or so they say and he spoke a lot of dung when I heard him and he said the Easter Bunny was evil and blamed electric for the ills of this sinful world in one of his fire and brimstone sermons that went on and on and on and on for an eternity burning in hell...not only was the devil in the details according to him, but the devil was everywhere...behind every building, tree, under every rock, inside every red blooded human...the bewildered and the naive good-hearted believed and couldn’t do enough for him and his little church The Holy Name of the Beloved Dollar or whatever it was called, located inside a double wide just off a dirt road between two cypress trees covered in moss that hangs down low and that probably wish they’d been left the hell alone...plush red pews that radiated religion and purity the good news of the book—twisted and mangled into whatever shape benefitted his viewpoint but of course he wasn’t the first or the last....the ubiquitous Sunday school with the Stepford wives and their plastic smiles and vacant eyes that saw nothing...he was quick to point out faults of others—the real and the imagined but slow to recognize his own shortcomings...imagine that...anyone that doubted him was seen by him as someone who had strayed from the flock and needed a good shearing to get back in line...lightning and thunder, thunder and lightning from the pulpit and plenty of come to god moments...all day Sunday the service would go with the occasional dinner afterwards consisting of cheap corn dogs, potato chips, and buckets of sweet tea to wash down the food and all the bullshit they were fed...he was a human 8-ball that had all the answers even when he wasn’t asked the questions and was about as accurate, but of course he would resent being compared to something he would surely consider “the devil’s work”...this guy used to do a radio show on some local Hispanic station and gave advice and pretended to be a ‘life coach’...well, one day I drove by and saw a for sale sign in front of the building and figured he must have gotten someplace bigger, but NOOOOOOOO!...the neighbor who used to go there said he ran off to New York or New Jersey with a young girlfriend he was keeping on the sly that old sly dog, that hypocrite...quite a shock to his wife, his kids, and the congregation after he ran off with the young assistant who worked with him at the church and always had on the tight skirts and blouses...rumor has it that some of the collection plate money might have been used to ‘take care’ of the mistress in question...i’m sure the congregation and the elders brought over some comfort food for the good wife and the kids afterwards...and then found a new leader that they could believe in...meanwhile pastor holy joe absconded with a good chunk of the church money and last I heard they were still looking for mr. holy joe and his christian values and his hot girlfriend...no surprise to me there...nor am I surprised when other churches wind up in the news when accusations and a whole kind of sensation revelation are made against the ‘youth pastor’ who turns out to be a child molestor and once again the people at the church are ‘shocked’...they can’t believe that could happen...and gee, he always loved to work with kids...i wonder why???

Drift Away

Imagine having this kind of experience when you’re totally not expecting it...your laying on the couch or the bed, chilling, relaxing on the sofa vista, laying back in your recliner, sitting in the loveseat without the love of your life or whatever...you’re looking at nothing in particular because it’s your place and there isn’t anything in particular worth looking at is there?...then without any kind of surgeon general’s warning or civil defense announcement or air raid like sirens going off nor effort on your part...gradually the lights in the room blur and seem to start moving...no, what?...they are moving...or at least seem to be...maybe some extra lights appear too…soft pastelly colors of green and purple maybe, or maybe soft white lights that help set the mood...slowly, slowly...you start to feel as though you are floating weightlessly…free and easy peasy...then it seems like you are drifting, just drifting away somewhere in space...maybe into a secret stratosphere?...who knows?...all this without the help of a bottle of Wild Irish Rose or some pricey vodka that doesn’t taste any different from the low end kind that you have to get on your knees and reach to the back of the bottom shelf of your favorite purveyor of spirits store to get...this is pure natural participation in another world type of reality and being...it isn’t anything conjured up or manufactured in any way--anyway this feeling is one where you’re just drifting along in peace and floating on a sea or cloud of ataraxia...floating  floating floating—pleasant all the same...the longer you drift and lift...sometimes it feels like you’re drifting through space, brushing by the moon, touching the stars and the constellations, taking a bite out of the Milky Way with its chocolate caramel nougat...and maybe, maybe you are even drifting through time even...minutes and years and millenniums dissolve...time is no longer real and you’re going into a different kind of dimension...a third, fourth, or even fifth?...maybe while all this is going on, you start to look inwards and begin to ponder...ponder the wonder of it all maybe--ponder the ponderable...your mind is just an open field and the gate to the corral is wide open and you are ready to run like a wild horse…there’s just a feeling of calmness about the whole thing...no fear at all, no anxiety, no nerves...just pure tranquility...all your problems have slipped away...and then…...everything slowly comes back into focus...this feeling of ecstasy has ceased and once again you sense yourself laying on the couch and the lights come back into a state of fixed reality and you’ve got what is known among the jargon of doctorates and titans of the psychological industry as a ‘warm and fuzzy’ feeling inside of you...soon, real life experiences intercede...you don’t know what happened, but you’re glad it did and hope it happens again soon...this type of experience happens to everyday people...Joe Sixpacks and Oliver O. Officetypes...you don’t need to be of the paranormal leaning persuasion to encounter such a phenomenon...it happens to some people and never to some...some people scoff, brush off, dismiss, reject, ridicule and scorn ideas of this type of thing occurring, but what do they know for no one has an understanding of these profound experiences...they haven’t had the pleasure of it all...pleasure and magical experiences tend to avoid these carcasses of negativity...they probably don’t believe in rainbow colored unicorns either...who wouldn’t want a feeling of joy and peace?

Georgia Rain

Nice night in The Palmetto State a.k.a. northern South Carolina, a state where I’ve met the friendliest people...my car broke down the next day and I got towed to an auto repair shop in Spartanburg...they were closing and couldn’t fix my car that day...it’d have to wait until tomorrow—what a drag...I was telling the counterman guy my woes and sorwoes and he offered to take me to a hotel down the street...not too far but far enough that I couldn’t walk or drag an old brown luggage that I borrowed from a friend and was starting to look like it was on its last legs...or wheels as it was I guess...it really needed a wheelchair...and I had my dog with me too...so the guy drove me there and told me he’d call me the next day when the car was fixed and would come pick me up...and he did!...his name was Francisco and he was a really good guy and one of the nicest people I ever met and went way beyond what he had to do...I sure as hell wouldn’t have given some stranger a ride in my car to a hotel, but then that’s me and my sorry-ass misanthropic attitude...I told him that if he was ever in Florida, look me up and I’d show him around...broken down between exits—trees and grass, grass and trees…now here I am again on the road again and driving through Georgia and it’s starting to rain...no, not rain, pour...like somebody’s got a big plastic bucket and they’re holding it over you and just dumping the water...a downright downpour and my wipers are in a manic frenzy trying to keep up with the down...Valdosta, Tifton, and Cordele...I’ve been through Georgia many times and it don’t matter what town I’m in, it’s raining...well they got some mighty fine fried chicken and apple pie ala mode at the Ramada Inn or at least used to years ago...it was a real nice restaurant complete with southern charm and a charming waitress with a sweet southern accent out of the movies and I half expected a gentleman of the south to come out and dine with me…you know a gentleman of leisure...one of those guys who is of independent means and doesn’t need to work...a man who is free from the duties and responsibilities of everyday life...elegant, cultured, and most assuredly rich, he’d be wearing a seersucker suit and a big old plantation hat and probably smoking a big old cigar...the kind of guy who orders scotch and then regales his evening’s company with stories, a raconteur of renown...it’s pouring when I stop to get something to eat...when I’m inside the rain lightens up and I’m thinking that maybe it’s clearing up and it does until I get back in the car and hit the road...the drops get bigger and the radio gets softer and the wipers start going crazy again...still raining...Macon, Forsythe, Mc Donough...it don’t matter what town because the rain gods have got it in for me...finally a stop for the night and in my hotel room I hear a long train whistle over the sound of my creaky air conditioner that I got on full blast to drown out all the other sounds...the train is somewhere out there in the night or maybe it’s just a ghost...I don’t actually hear the train going by, but I hear the whistle a few more times and then like an old soldier, it just fades away...then I hear the sound of rain again on the roof...I know how somebody got the idea for the song ‘Rainy Night In Georgia’--great song--I finally crash because I gotta get an early start in the morning...the alarm goes off and I wake up with the air conditioner still bumping and grinding and the omnipresent rain...I get my stuff and run out to the car...there’s no let up...outskirts of Atlanta and it’s still raining like a 19th century French King and there ain’t nothing I can do about it because I’m just a pauper...and it’s crazy because this always seems to happen whenever I got to drive through Georgia to get to Florida or to get to Chicago or to get to wherever I got to get to...why you always rain on me Georgia?...you got something against me?