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	enjoy this writing from Mike Brennan in the cc&d free 2014 PDF file chapbook: Postcards from Exile    (click on the front cover image or the title text to download the free PDF file, available with two different covers)				You can also order this release as a 2014 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread for the book Postcards from Exile

Order this writing in the book the Beaten Path (a Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page Jan. - June 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Dear God

Mike Brennan

If you have a design you need to go back to drafting school

I have seen you bump off infants within their first year
Afflict teenagers with elderly diseases
Litter life with a litany of suicides, mangled Marines & accidental OD’s
All without any logic nor reasoning

Your Angels are all that are caught up in Man’s Venus Flytrap in your absence

I am haunted by the faceless entities bombed overseas
At least in their explosive demise I hold some belief
Although their existence is as foreign to me as yours
I can at least recreate their ghosts in the dead of night

Unlike you,
You counterfeit boogie man

Come out of your closet &
Show me your eyes
Those baby blues that are supposedly windows to the soul

To me you are just a punch-drunk Santa Claus
With a savage chip on a shrouded ancient shoulder

A first-degree killer
Willing to send your own son
To be slaughtered
Or maybe you really are Allah
Busy pawning off virgins to suicide bombers

It’s impossible to count all the lives you toss away like yesterday’s newspaper

Limbs ripped
Brains damaged
Untimely            Nothingness            Forever            Expanded

I believe man’s words can be as holy as any written under your name
You really are the Original Gangster
& who am I to stand in your way?

So many tend to bend towards you
But I refuse-                        I refuse.
I am the Thief

    I am the thief being crucified by Jesus’ side. Dangling like a fat petal off a wooden stem. I can see my house from this height. My family and friends circle an anorexic lamppost. My god-parents toss epileptic fits on a freshly trimmed lawn. I have all the instruments of death within my reach, but I like the idea of draining my life away, while becoming a heavenly body. & now I flow. . .I flow like a rock n’ roll lyric. I flow like the fuck. I flow like bright colors on a canvas, sadly aging in the island’s sick sun. I am more dynamic than any bird in those coffee stained books you buy. The stain is always a beautiful ring. Like Dante’s circles of Hell, but I don’t really care about birds. I prefer their wings, or the cat that lurks in the darkness behind.

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