Dispatches from Terra Incognita: 3
Fragments from an Old Guy Lost in an Extremely Confusing World
Ah, the evangelicals have finally come clean. When asked why they supported Donald Trump, Iowan evangelicals didn’t fall back on the usual “Because I like his policies.” Instead, the most popular response was, “He shares our values.”
And what values are those? Kindness? Tolerance? Love of thy neighbor? Forgiveness? Just recently Trump advocated killing his adversaries and expressed interest in becoming a dictator, and let’s not forget the oldie but goodie--shooting migrants in the kneecaps as they try to cross the border. That will teach the bastards!
Still this evangelical phenomenon deserves a little playful exploration.
Here's what we find in the dictionary for the word “evangelical”: "of or pertaining to the gospel, or a school in Protestantism seeking to promote conversion and emphasizing salvation by faith, the sacrifice of Christ, and a strictly religious life.”
Moving from evangelical to evangelist, we come across: “from Late Latin evangelista, from Greek euangelistes ‘preacher of the gospel,’ literally ‘bringer of good news.’”
I would argue that it’s beyond obvious that Trump has nothing to do with either one of these definitions, unless you agree with me that in a thesaurus under these words, his mugshot would be included next to the antonyms for “bringer of good news.” In fact, modern day evangelicals and their avatar Trump don’t offer a lot of “good news,” instead longing for the day when everyone but themselves will be yanked out of their suits of rotting, blasphemous flesh and tossed into hell where they be forced for eternity to sleep with their heads on a Mr. Pillow that tends to catch fire every five minutes or so.
But who I really feel sorry for is God and Jesus. I can imagine them sitting back one night working on bottle of JD (which it’s rumored is their favorite drink) and watching TV as these Iowan evangelicals share their comments about Trump and Christian values.
God, who’s been around much longer than Jesus, is probably more amused than anything, having witness a shitstorm of human idiocy since Day One. I picture Him shaking His head , then saying to Jesus (who looks as if He’s just awakened from another Crucifixion nightmare), “Well, my Son, at least they’re being honest this time. I could smite them now, but let’s allow things play out a little longer and see if they’ll actually vote for that idiot.”
God thinks that’s funny, that is, until he notices Jesus’ sad expression, not knowing that just last night Jesus, out of curiosity and dressed in fatigues and a beat-up MAGA cap, He decided to slum it at a Trump rally, where he watched the faithful hoot and holler while Trump spoke of getting revenge on the “globalists and Marxists and communists, and socialists, and war mongers, and the neocons and the rhinos, the big money, special interests, the open border fanatics, crazy people, and the fake news media.”
The memory of that litany of horror-show grievances is enough to make Jesus catch His breath and mumble to himself. “Haven’t that funny-looking dude and the rest of these yokels ever read the Sermon on the Mount. I mean, shit, I worked really, really hard on that sermon.”
“I know the feeling,” God says, thinking about all the cool and loving words he implanted in the heads of holy men over the centuries.
What follows this exchange, is a moment of sacred silence until God, who is all wise and, let’s face it, the Dad we have always wanted, remembers how easily Jesus is distracted, and says, “You know I’ve heard that if you mix JD with Dr. Pepper, you’ll never go back to drinking it straight.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jesus says, the conversation ending with a snap of a Godly finger and a fizz that resonates throughout the universe.
****
Look for comedy among the ruins, or vice versa.
****
Beware of men who have first names that sound like last names. From my experience they’re all troublemakers. I’m talking about guys like Barrington Barthelme, Bentley Blake, Landon Lincoln, and Parker Paxton. These guys are the worst because they double down on pretentiousness by appropriating alliteration.
Which brings me to a guy I met in graduate school. He was from southern California yet somehow found himself in a New Hampshire winter trying to get an MFA in poetry.
Let’s call him Sawyer Rockwell (I’ll spare him the indignity of alliteration). I could go on and on about his level of pomposity, but let’s focus on his wool tweed pants because that was the only thing that impressed me about him.
I mean, back in those days you had to be a tough guy to wear wool tweed pants. You had to have a high threshold for pain because they would rub against your thighs until they looked like raw hamburger. Yes, those pants made me forget his shortcomings, that is, until I went to the gym with him one day and noticed that the pants were silk lined. SILK LINED! In my small cosmos, he took a hard fall, ending up somewhere between a tomato worm and cockroach.
Thus, our brief bromance abruptly ended.
****
“It’s infuriating,” I tell my friend the way guys compare women to cars, talking about their ‘sleek lines’ and ‘strong chassis,’ not to mention what a ‘great ride’ certain ladies can give a man.”
“Agreed,” my friend says. “Which is why I think, especially in terms of the ride metaphor, a comparison to a horse is far more exact.”
“I think you missed my point,” I say.
****
In a wonderful world that offers so many cool possibilities which we have ignored to the point that society is teetering on the brink of extinction, have you ever wondered who will come along and save us from ourselves? Have you ever felt like the last living passenger on an ocean liner destined to butt heads with an iceberg the size of New Jersey? Well, here’s a little prose poem for you.
Maiden Voyage
“The ocean undulating like an experienced lover.” “Dark sad clouds wanting to merge and pleasure themselves.” “The sunrise craving to slip into something sexy.” All three, dumb expressions repeating themselves in my head like the rat-a-tat-tat of a claw hammer. I’m the last living passenger on this “maiden” voyage, which, ironically, included only men. The cattle, sick of being sacrificed, had jumped overboard, so the crew was forced to eat each other. The last mariner, mad from guilt and shame, voluntarily walked the plank to the great applause of perched seagulls, while a billionaire in a cowboy hat floated weightlessly in space, too stupid to realize he’d eventually have to land. Meanwhile, I’m leaning over the bow, grasping a bouquet of dead roses in my sunburnt hands. I’m waiting for that previously promised maiden to present herself and prove that she was more than just a virus-driven fever dream. I’m praying for a new Garden of Delights and Disappointments to suddenly appear on the horizon. A place where we can happily repopulate, knowing we will be dead long before our watered-down genes ruin it again.
The above prose poem is from While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems, available at While the Undertaker Sleeps
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss+