Online Edition 07.14.06

Love Letter to New York | by Andrea Avery

Snapshot of Christ | by Joe Esser

The Beginnings of an Animal Rescuer | by Randy Grim

From Way Down Here to Way Up There | by Chris King

The Gift | by Christian Saller

High on Jesus | by Rob Thurman

Cemeteries | photos by Jane Linders, Katherine Bish, and Andrea Avery

Print Edition   

POETRY & PROSE

Love Letter to New York | by Andrea Avery

Robert Keyes | by Aaron Belz

In Appreciation: The Pruitt-Igoe Nature Preserve | by Thomas Crone

As Grandmother Neared Death | by Lindsey Durway

Say Hello to Papa Legba | by Franklin Jennings

Jackrabbit Stew | by Patrick Landewe

From Out of Nowhere | by K. Curtis Lyle

Oh Ye Of Little Faith | by Andrea Noble

Variations on a Rag for William S. Burroughs | by Randall Roberts

Torn Map Home | by Stefene Russell

As a Means to Love Him More Dearly | by Eric Erfan Vickers

Thank Christ for Easier to Argue | by James Weber

Southern Spine | by James Weber

PHOTOS & ILLUSTRATIONS

Andrea Avery, Jenna Bauer, Andrea Day, Thomas Crone, Caroline Huth, Jane Linders, Carmelita Nuñez,   Kerry Zimmerman

 

High On Jesus | by Rob Thurman

In memory of Evelyn

Spent your whole life getting high, now.
High on Jesus.
High on drugs.

In the choir, from the pulpit.
You’re smoking meth and blowing thugs.

Got a habit and your memory
is a dark and garbled haze.

Never wanted to go back there
and revisit days of Praise.

- - - - -

Singing hymns at the revival --
Pastor’s hand a climbing vine.

During prayer, his fingers travel
and rest firmly on your thigh.

Later on his breath will linger
on your neck -- across your eyes.

Jesus bleeding in the window.
You don’t care.
Don’t wonder why.

- - - - -

It was Heaven ‘cause he loved you.
So he said – so you believed.

It was Hell when Mama found you
in his house, down on your knees.

There’s no trumpet that is louder
than a scream of shame and pride.

Ship him off, that sinful Brother
Make you wish
that you
had died.

Later on, they’ll hold a service
‘cause they think that you can change.

Deacon lays you down real slowly –
wash away the guilt, the shame.

All the people clap and holler.
Halleluiah’s joyful hum is
all you hear when under water.

Drowning.

Just for tasting cum.

- - - - -

You are Saved now, so they tell you,
but God hates your sordid past.

You’ll stop seeking His approval,
find some joy you’ll know will last.

High in Heaven (with the angels)
Jesus prances with the Saved.

You’ll find Heaven in a needle,
shoved down deep inside your vein.

- - - - -

You don’t need Him to get by now.
Found your fix.
Your cross you’ll buy.

Hell’s just running out of money.
God’s a joke.
A dream.
A lie.

Ain’t a song to make it better.
Not a prayer to make you whole.

Got this pain.
You’re getting numb now.
With a straw next to your nose.

BIO

Read more about Rob Thurman's feelings on faith on his always entertaining blog, robthurman.com.