The Cultist

I saw them planted, growing
by the glowing of a box lighting
all the faces fit to print and distant
ejaculations of rocket-stars crossing
sere alien landscapes, looping
X-shaped contrails.

And there was God—the box
before them—they communed,
touched tips of dicks to He, keyboards
clacking, controller-prayers
clicking, through that wall,
into space, into God.
And He saw that
it was good.

The boxed god grew
hungry for sacrifice.
Days, Hours, Minutes,
as real as the current—
sixty hertz of Lifestream—
Cloud fell in, and we all came
up blubbering idiots, armchairs
to wheelchairs. Then

prayer got cheap, and we
were never Zack,
and the cult grew
swathes wide through
the unbelievers:
sixty hertz ecstatic.



    • It started out as a Howl-inspired piece about how many of the greatest minds of my generation are dabbling with the powerful drug of electric ecstasy, and how many of them embrace the boxed god through communion and how many are left permanently debilitated.

      It’s a piece about one of my first loves and how things have changed for the better and for worse in the lives of those who partake in communion with that love.

      The X’s are meant to invoke ideas of an X-box–among other things–although I myself have never played the system much.

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