Tag Archives: Easter


Steal This Meme: Shadow and Puppet

christ w shadow bunny rcrop twk ort twk


Random Photo: Happy Bunny!

ark bunny

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Steal This Meme: Easter Egg Hunt

easter egg hunt

Bonus Easter image:

easter 1964ish

Dr. Omed and his sisters, 1963ish. Nostalgia is a disease, but I loved that blue blazer.


A Day in the Life of the Risen Jesus

Jesus is homeless.
Jesus hasn’t had a shower
or a haircut
or a shave
in a long, long time.

Jesus sleeps in a cardboard box
down by the river,
dreaming of sweet Mary Magdalene.

Jesus rises with the sun,
washes his hands with water from a plastic jug.

Jesus kneels on his dirty sleeping bag,
and chants the Shema:

The Lord our God is One…

Jesus walks a mile to the labor pool,
looking for a day’s work.

Jesus speaks Spanish fluently;
with his olive skin he could be mestizo.
Jesus is a hard worker and knows some carpentry.

Jesus usually goes out on a job
with a construction or lawn crew.

Jesus could make foreman,
but he drinks a little.
Jesus often disappears for days and weeks
and no one knows where.

Blessed be the Unspoken Name
and the Unseen Kingdom…

Jesus cashes his paycheck at FastCash,
crosses the street to the liquor store
lays down money for the jug wine
he will share with his friends
down by the river.

And you shall love the Lord, your God
with all your heart,
with all your soul,
and with all your might.

Jesus stays up late
drinking and talking with his brothers, brother to all.
Jesus didn’t come to save, this time.
There’ll be no healing, this time.
No miracles, this time.
No water into wine, even when the bottle’s empty.

These words will command you today in your heart:
teach the children.

Jesus washes his hands
with water from the plastic jug,
under unseen stars.

Jesus chants the Shema:

when you sit at home,
when you walk along the way,
when you lie down and when you rise up.

Today is 7 Chuwen 9 Pohp

1349 shopping days until 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.

avam-egg-3-21-07America Visionary Arts Museum, Baltimore, March 2007

Have a very shiny Eostre Egg Day.


Life is a plum circus, replete with sorrows. A feast of mallow, and scorn. A hyperbolic paraboloid of concrete poured on form of straight timbers. Life is:  a swatch of sun, abandoned by insect beetling through the loam. A quest for Ultima Thule,  Kontiki–only to find walking nosehead gods carved of native stone.  A Sunday stroll past pickets ringing a nudist colony–at the pace of Foyt lapping the Brickyard. Mangoes and papaya–dripping lackaday typos and sticky addenda.  Purple mountain’s majesty–beyond the vehicular haze of Quivera. A straight blast down the gunbarrel road of Colorado’s South Park, while overhead lazybones sculls down his gruesome spiral to gorge on curdled meat of tire’s victim. A lubricious compound, stardust and swampwater. Pleasure targeted by Peenemunde, a zero sum game. Peignoir over chastity belt.  Jolt of Tesla at tip of glans, bon voyaging Mongol horde of sperm–“there died a myriad” that one might live. Plasticity humbled, the juggernaut of flesh reduced to a chassis of bone, to a float reclaimed from wilted flora on day after parade, the flowers wirra interred as mesh and bar to reinforce that other flesh, earth. Sweet cream Venus in her teens forgetful of Psyche so black and blue. A turbojet engine, ear-mulching bagpipe, its spin snuffed on mere peck of grackle. Tickling pinkies of April giggling over scorched October, that old wives’ tale of Midas’ touch, all gilt and russet. The love song of J. Alfred Humpback, pitching woo to his diving partner until they press like palms together in lewd and vertical expulsion from depths of Eden; meanwhile other whale parts get skived for sushi. All is spoil.  All is plush.  Life but paint spattered on drop canvas while idled mind departs, now voyageur to Neptune. Life but Pacmen in muck under mechanic’s nails, eating at the quick, while other sediments beget wetlands. Pogroms plucking up multitudes while penicillin saves greater tribes, one by one. The discouraging score barely tallied as the next deck gets shuffled and dealt.

This life is sorrows, replete with a plum circus.

And always, the egg.

Eugene Zandler ©2003

Speaking of eggs, my Grandmother collected stone eggs. Shaped and polished alabaster, travertine, and the like. When she died in March 1999 at age 90, I got a new egg for her. My family is Baptist, at least for the purpose of burying loved ones, and there is embalming and the viewing of the meat at the funeral home. While no one was looking I slipped that new egg under her thigh. Placing that stone egg under my Grandmother as she lay in her coffin was my own personal pagan act of “rebirth” for my Grandma.