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Jesus, he gets the good press, because of the resurrection.

First, it is said, he raised from the dead Lazarus.

And then, so it is further said, he raised from the dead himself.

It is nowadays said, by Nazis like Ratzinger, that Jesus is the only dude who could so, then, and now, do such a thing.

And so, from this, must the frenzied total worship come.

Except that this, like most of what Nazis and Ratzingers say, is a lie.

Bollocks.

Because you and I, we resurrect each other, each and every day.

I am so low down, I am so riven, I am so crawling: and then some human, does something, I can't even later recall what it was, but it keeps me scuttling on.

That human was my Jesus.

From him, from her, from them, I am resurrected.

So, too, every day, I endeavor, to be a Jesus, like that, to somebody. Barely, most times, even knowing what I'm doing.

It's true, that it's not a very lovely world.

But every day, even if only unwittingly, I am going to try to show the love that is here, to somebody.

This you will do to me, too.

You keep me alive.

I return the favor.

That's how it works here.

We are all resurrected. We resurrect each other.

And none of any of it, on this planet, is worth two shits, unless that's what we're doing. Warming each other. Resurrecting one another.

Guns: money: presidents:
none of this is Real.

Kenneth Patchen says this:

Don't you understand?

I have arisen not from the dead but from the living.

I am not a voice crying in the wilderness.

There is no winter here. No dark. No despair.

The lights are going on in my house.

I shall not allow the President of the United States to enter here.

There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light.

I have all my lights on.

And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

This site, sweetly in-the-vein addictive as it is, is an illusion.

There are no parties. There are no pundits. There are no potentates. There are no policies. There are no politics.

There are only sad little humans.

Knuckles dragging.

And, in the sweetest part of themselves, looking for some form of love.

You have no idea, how much power you have.

I would say more, but I am just not into writing any more.

It just doesn't work.

So, as, again, Patchen says:

I opened my mouth to maybe say a bit of a prayer for them.

And it started to bleed again.

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