I don't know if love exists--
Instead I see gays and adulterers.
They say they love, but it is only feelings.
I truly hate this world, and it is your fault.
I cannot truly say whether love is just a fairy tale.
So... there is nothing left in this world for me to want.
Just your broken promises, and your foul desires.

- It's not about you, or you. But someone I met on the internet.

He walked into the club, Eurotrash playing in the background, his entourage were all his lovers. Five men, and three women, who he slept with off and on. They had a pact, they were each other's, all of them in a binding agreement. Anyone else, and they'd be kicked out.
	They came into the dance floor, and heard the music blaring, they grinded, they danced, they took out their penises, and made love right there on the floor.
	Afterward, they went home and injected themselves with vitamins—they never ate, in order to stay fit.  They were sleek, and had the best plastic surgery done, to look natural. They took collegian shots for smooth, unblemished skin. They looked like Brooklyn Decker and Errol Flynn, only more beautiful and natural than both of them. Perfectly sculpted bodies, shaped from dancing all day, and all night.
	They took the taste rays, and made themselves taste all sorts of beautiful foods. Incredible tastes... fruits, chocolates, tastes impossible for us to imagine. They put on glasses, which let them see colors the human eye cannot see. They had smelling salts, which were incredible, scented candles with deep, rich pheromones, which made you really horny. 
	Then, all eight of them had an orgy, as they do every three hours.
	They never worked. The Atomizers made everything for them. It took air molecules and turned them into whatever they wanted. They programmed in what they wanted, and it made. But, there wasn't much to make. Only vitamin shots, and carbs and proteins. They never ate; that was gross.
	There was a Christian community down the street, with ugly looking Christians. Fat, slovenly, they dug in the ground, and they manufactured things. They had to eat, couldn't change their appearance, they were hideous.
	
	Dachan, the leader of the group, was walking down the sidewalks, seeing the beautiful holograms, which you could touch if you wanted to. But they were like people. They had rights. Anyway, they were walking down the street, and he caught a woman walking out of a store. It was a Christian store—as all stores were Christian. Only Christians shopped. Modern man partied, made love, and indulged their senses with taste and smell. These people ate food. Which, any food they'd eat would taste like garbage or crap to Dachan. Bread would be repulsive, and an apple so dull, that the sweetest honeycrisp wouldn't even register. It wasn't that the technologies scarred their tongues—though it did—it was that the flavors were so intense and elysiastic. 
	He saw the woman, in her blonde hair, her bumped nose, her small breasts—she did have a nice butt. Short, no shin implants to make her tall. Nice hair, but a common body odor. It wasn't modified, as all of them could create new scents and odors with their bodies.
	He saw her, and he, in his blue hair, with a face like Lucifer's—perfect and without blemish—felt something strange rush over him. It wasn't “Love”. Love is love. It was something he'd never felt before. A great stirring of something deeper. She looked at him with a frightened side glance, and scurried off.
	But, he pursued her. Until he met with her at the stables, and to say he'd never smelled horse pee wouldn't be wrong—he followed her out of the city, into the country, where only Christians lived. And he nearly vomited smelling the manure.
	The woman, named Carol, saw him gagging, and she walked up to him, in a doppy manner—they were all conditioned to walk with perfect stride and balance—and said “Hello.” He felt something strange. A stirring of sorts, he'd never felt before. It was something more than what he'd ever felt. Something he didn't have a word for, but we'd call deeper. It wasn't the shallow and toxic affect of his Pop Disco music he listened to. It wasn't the happy and carefree bliss he had. Not that toxic emotion. It was pure.
	She didn't feel it at all for him.

	He kept coming back to greet her—she'd seen many beautiful people, so it didn't have an effect on her. She knew, that a Christian man just wasn't going to be good looking. She accepted that. They weren't the gods of the new world that man had become. Christians were pudgy, from eating real food. They listened to Church Choirs, and not Pop Disco. They ate, didn't dance like them, but did waltzes and line dances. But Dachan, with his olive skin, and blue hair, spoke first.
	“Hey, what's up? My name's Dachan.”
	She looked carefully at him, and said, “My name's Carol.”
	“What are your pronouns?” asked Dachan.
	Carol sighed. “Just, don't even go there. We don't associate with your kind for a reason.”
	“Oh, you mean you're racist?”
	“No...” said Carol.
	“Then why don't you associate with me?”
	“You won't understand.”
	“Try me.”
	“I could try for an eternity, and you just wouldn't get it.”
	“Well, try me.”
	“I don't believe homosexuality is the right way.”
	“Well, why not? Who does it hurt?”
	“It hurts me, by making you.”
	Dachan looked aghast, “Me? I'm beautiful. I have a good life.”
	“You have a fake life,” said Carol.
	“My life's no more fake than yours,” said Dachan.
	“Please, leave me alone.”
	“I felt something when I saw you though,” said Dachan.
	“I'm sure you feel lots of things,” said Carol.
	“Yeah, but not like this.”
	Carol rolled her eyes, “You're such a toxic person.”
	“Toxic?” asked Dachan.
	“Yes.”
	“Don't you mean you're toxic?” asked Dachan.
	“I guess.”

 	He departed from her, and didn't think much of it. But that feeling he got. He didn't understand it, so he came back two days later.
	“Hey, Carol,” said Dachan.
	“Yes?” asked Carol.
	“I have a feeling bigger than any I ever felt, and you're not like us. Beautiful I mean.”
	“Yes? And?”
	“Well, what is it? I never felt this before?”
	Carol said, “That's peace.”

My brain, I must move to create my most lucid thoughts.
My frontal cortex is fueled by my Balance Organ.
As a child, I ran through the basement imagining;
Creating worlds, fighting my aggression, seeing
Futures, which would then  be made into books later on.
Now, I walk through the State Park and compose strong ideas
And my best always comes when I move through space and time.

I find Paul at the Sandwich Shop, and he
Says I am graven into God's hand;
I shall come out like Gold.

I blow the Shofar on Trumpets
And it tastes rancid on my tongue's tip.
The eerie sound is heard around the whole world.

Jonathan sits on my sofa, and tells me of Hail Britannica,
I walk back into my room, and pray for it to be given by God;
I dream it, and say, "Let me be prophesying him, and be like Jacob!"

While writing the epic, I hear "It is a miracle!"
As my dad walks through the door and tells me a joke.
At the critical moment, I have written it.

I read Habakkuk with Isaiah and Matthew
And when about to leave, I greet a man.
His eyes grow wide, so I then see him stumble out the bookstore's door.

Dreams come, they go,
The women talk of Michelangelo.
"It's a miracle!" says my dad,
At the pivotal moment.
I read it, at rest,
Seeing the Epic is given by God.
The epic begins with the invocation 
Of Providence.
And in this, my Epic is sound.
Prufrock gets maddened,
But I, like, Jacob played a trick.

Bones of children lay in piles
The light of their life has gone.
In mystical vision I see so vile
Destroy that false, wicked religion.

Baal is a curse, not a blessing
So to Christ's Law and Jehovah bring
Your bounty of the first fruit's alms
And lift your hands and praise and sing.

Break your heart with sorrows
For wrong you have commitdt
And bash that Heathen God to pieces
Or in hell's caverns you shall sit.

What is Baal but the Heathen's call
Of Sodomite, Polygamy and Epicene Aesthetic?
What is Baal but Feeling Good as All
While feasting your love to faithlessness?

There are some who stare at shit stains
On a canvas, and prefer it
To the Pieta. There are some
Who like conflict and abuse in
Their marriages, and like to fight.
There are some who like the thought of
Divorce, and some who like to stare
At mangled corpses, objects that
Are obscure and undefined, no
Form. There are some who like "Logic"
And "Scientific Realism"
And fat bodies and gross faces.
There are some that see no gender;
Only gays can have blissful love;
The woman rules over a man.
There are even some who like pain
During sex, and to torture those
They love. That is all modern art.

The giant trees stand one hundred foot.
Cool, August chill bathes me---
The first August chill in years---
The swelling feeling of Late Summer
The sleepy time, of the swing of things;
The light pours from the West
In blaring rays, in the cool day,
Illuminating the hundred foot trees,
Seventy-two degrees.
A theme occupies my mind
As I walk down my path,
And talk to the LORD Who always listens.
A theme of  memories and the disciples,
How they could remember Christ's words
The same way I do; or I remember
A story such as Little Red Riding Hood
Or Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
Stories foundational to me,
Paul Bunyan, or I remember
Augusts long ago were cool
When for many years they were sweltering;
Why? Because it meant my Summer was come to an end;
And that, like Jesus, is important to me.