reckoning
has come
my mama tells me
that I am a heretic
that I’d rather wear
my unwashed denim cut-offs
than kiss the feet
of elevated saintsSunday morn
is a struggle
when I’d rather keep my eyes
closed
and chat to a campy dream-conscription
lamenting
in Freudian skerries
than dress in white
stained twice too many
by unexpected flows
‘neath the pulpita ratty blanket
too dirty to be washed
is a shield
of futility against salvation
(it ain’t free, no)
that sells itself
by stealing slumber and cuckoo projections
and Chinese soap operas
right before teen show rerunsendlessly
I search for weapons
but there is no fighting
a blast
of the cold shower
or the threat of cutting off my
fiat sustenancethe beads I gather
and I head for the final stop
glossed lips moving
in silent feverish whispers
of supplication
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