..another Sunday morning...

has come
my mama tells me
that I am a heretic
that Id rather wear
my unwashed denim cut-offs
than kiss the feet
of elevated saints

Sunday morn
is a struggle
when Id rather keep my eyes
and chat to a campy dream-conscription
in Freudian skerries
than dress in white
stained twice too many
by unexpected flows
neath the pulpit

a ratty blanket
too dirty to be washed
is a shield
of futility against salvation
(it aint free, no)
that sells itself
by stealing slumber and cuckoo projections
and Chinese soap operas
right before teen show reruns

I search for weapons
but there is no fighting
a blast
of the cold shower
or the threat of cutting off my
fiat sustenance

the beads I gather
and I head for the final stop
glossed lips moving
in silent feverish whispers
of supplication

This work is copyright 1999 The Accounts and Shirley Siaton-Parabia.
Please do not take, repost or distribute in any form without express written permission.