The ongoing story of Jesus waking up in Chicago, in the body of an agnostic writer,
who is nothing like the Son of God the right-wing Christians watching him expected.

You are welcome to share my work with a link bank... keep getting asked this...

Last time I was here, I told them I would not lead a revolution, that I was there to spread heresy. The crowds thinned. The day they killed me, I marched alone... This time I have returned to find Romes Soldiers Sleeping, content they have killed off the Troublesome Jew. I was surprised how bloody the Indiana boy became as my sword fell again and again ....

In the years since this story began in 2007, my secret fame has spread out from the halls of power that kept me secret all these years, as they waited for the Christ to finally wake up...

I try to imagine their anticipation.

Remember a dream I had in my twenties about running thru Chicago screaming that Christ was coming back, and man oh man was I happy... a cloud came through the middle of the skyscrapers above me, in the thin strip of blue above Dowtown State street, and I expected to see Christ... instead, just a bunch of musicians painted up like Ziggy stardust.

I surprised my keepers. They thought they had me figured out from the Bible. If that book could have told you everything, there would be no need at all for me.

Jesus: "I have become Known across this planet as a dangerous man with a growing force of hidden followers who value my orders more than life itself. A prophet of war. Once and future King in a court of shadows. Life and death in my hands every damn day. I ROAR, your most mighty shit themselves and run. I make myself a known threat, so I can try to negotiate what otherwise requires bullets and blood. I am here to free the enslaved in body and mind. I cannot be defeated. When the Will of God and The WILL OF THE PEOPLE ARE ONE, NO FORCE ON EARTH CAN STOP US!"


We come into this life expecting too much and leave expecting too little

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

occurs to me

This prose was written at the height of my campaign to straiten up the world and still preserve the sactity of the state and the church... I was filled with the glory of god... and a lot of drugs.

Occurs to me
by jsr

1:00 AM

as I sit here looking out the window at heavy flakes of snow swirling down onto Sheriden road and covering cars and dusting the dog walkers leaning into the brittle wind, that this sudden shift of mine to memoir and poetry and battle on mode is being taken as entirely fiction by some, yellow journalism in the school of Poe's Pym; and while you would most certainly be right as the critic's who trashed the journey's of poor pym for being lies -- as if fiction were anything but; you would also be down right recklessly wrong. I am as serious as when my dog is in danger. Or
the most deadly of fart attacks from Broccoli and cheese and milk and turnips and toads!!!

Shit happened I can't explain.
Things just got weird.
No shit, I know what people call me and the names I use in my acts, but I have no idea who the hell I am, or what to name this emerging creature.... and I was pretty damn well convinced I knew how to describe myself right down to the molecular level and I was prepared to do so at the drop of a hat and you can ask anybody about this -- they will tell you I talk too much about everyting and it gets annoying. My muse let's my fingers chat on and on all day, the dear one listens and laughs and sighs, always the cheerleader/warrior/whore at heart.

A wave hit the shores of lake mitch a few weeks ago, and me and a few others had our makeshift surf boards ready...

Thanks to the emerging miracle of praying with keyboards, we have been inviting you along. We welcome you to our surf. Sorry we had to pretend it was a yacht and we have street cred and fat wallets and all. We couldn't let you recognize us as scroungy, weedibbled surfers who you probably wouldn't normally have the time of day for... this is a court of impossible standards, and we are the jesters, which grants us the privilege of doing things our own way, mostly; has to of course be some self censors for the sensibilities of kids and the vanity of queens.

We hid behind our silly masks... smoked up in our mansions... until you mistook us for gods on a segment on Entertainment Tonight and alarmed we began to scream NOOOOO

-- and that's when we said
make me an unholy icon
in the eyes of this
ancient & new creature
THE emergent one

. Thanks for trusting us that this one wave will break peacefully, soothingly, into a gentle, graceful night of silent mourning.'

The entire world has become symbolic to me. I suddenly have the eye of a real poet or some such mythic shit, seeing stories with layer after layer after layer even in the most mundane, cliche dance of a dust mote in a sunray. This is not supposed to be happening to me; I had my last chapters all written as a jovial atheist. Oh, well....

There are so many ways to arrange the words; conversations that need to be peacably had over each and every verse of this new bible, this manuel, this gonzo, this text book, this pipedream of peace.

All writings by John Scott Ridgway are protected by the law... but I encourage you to spread my poems by whatever means necessary. One day you will understand.

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