The Smoking Priest (original)

I am a smoking priest. I proffer up my body as a temple. And, when the mysterys of my temple are forgotten, the devotees will be left with nothing more than the resinous smoke and scent of that unusual sacrement.
It was in the sorrow of my youth and the unmistakable pathos of pubescent schizophrenia that I became aware of my love for God, and of the perverse love he felt for me.
For if God did not feel any love for me than who would? Certainly not the padres dressed entirely in black swathes of mystery. In those black mysteries were the kernels of a light that I would feel to begin to grow and cover me with its soiled unctious folds that like compost rotted and released heat. It was heat that I felt, but not love. Perhaps love can be described as “hot” much like the heat of passion or the warmth that one feels for a loved one, but this heat burned my bare flesh. When I realized what I had done, I quickly dowsed the source of my pain and the affected area with the soothing jet of the shower head. As a mantra, I began to repeat the sensible phrase, “Brut 33 on my genitals and asshole is a bad idea, a bad bad idea.” The heat of this moment left me and I began to concentrate on this mystery of the disappearing sacrement, the deficient faith of my peers and of God’s ill and burgeoning disrespect for my body.
For my body and myself were both involved here as dissatisfied spectators in this play that began to unfold upon these steps. There was no separation between body, soul, spirit, faith, body, blood, holy ghost... It was wrapped into one burning scar upon my forehead and conscience. I began to see a white spot gradually arising, ascending, unfolding into itself and then in steps, to unfold once more into ever greater depths of whiteness, blankness and completeness. I began to understand.
White molded plastic... liberation found in the molded plastic dreams of an omniscient engineer. It broke the other day and as I stood there holding it, it formed an uncomfortable abrasion on my palm. liberation! God hurts. God hurts me no, no, unlike any other he wounds me. He. The wounds, and I travel and feel and breath and love in insipient tone and Gestures. I can lie. I can swim, and make love to my fantasy here in the formation of the number eight, the eighth molded plastic me created by the perverse DEI of disproportionate reach. The space between my reach and the intended goals are the objects upon which these fantasies are lain their bases. But it is due to these differences in what I want and can achieve that I find my greatest pleasures. When the black hooded men of yore told me to want, then to not want God’s love, Man’s love, to be selfless and at the same time confident in the ardour of your distinct ego and identity was Jesus’ paradox. His paradox being brought upon this earth as in perfect Man was to find the Son of God suddenly thrust into the role of flawed Man created after his own image, to bring others to him but without desire, want, need, nor identity, for He was just like any other. It is within these hidden riddles that I find my greatest searches for truth and shame revealed, laid bare, laid naked. Are we not all secretly pleased at being discovered immodest? That He would bare forth profets, would deliver us faith in the worlds words the voice of his most devoted and that those words should fall so flat is the greatest rub. In the rest and in the fallow deliverence is in stasis. And what is a stasis except for the lack of differences? As in a state of entropy, there is a lack of differences that serve to bring seemingly unreachable differences and flaws to an alarming conclusion of rest...