I saw a man wearing a shirt identical to this earlier today.
We’re all unfaithful,
To one thing or another,
God, women, whiskey,
cigarettes brands and two bit songs,
Or beer to cheap to pour in glasses to dirty to wash,
But I’ve never been proud to be unfaithful,
To somebody else’s God,
My hands are full,
Disappointing my own.
I’ll be your Rock,
Doris, here’s mud in your eye,
Skippy, cowboy, chief, buddy-ro,
That’ll put hair on your chest,
Hoss, boss man, big guy,
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail,
Somewhere down the Red River Valley,
We’ll shoot the breeze,
In the Sweet By and By,
I haven’t been that afraid,
since the last time I was scared,
which might have been the other day,
or was it when?
Maybe it was Sunday morning,
the day the preacher preached against sin,
he was frightening me,
about golden cows,
he petrified me,
but me is he,
and he is me,
so no wonder we’re scared.
No, not today,
The seagull scowls,
I want to explain.
Why follow the beam of blue,
Spanning the day storms,
invisible to the naked eye?
Let me speak:
The offering of now,
on the altar of yesterday’s bread;
between the vagrant’s lips
are embellished lies;
undone by finite northeasterly nights,
when I have gone hungry
so others may flee,
and here remain bound,
a captive to sky and sea.
In this cerulean desert,
Surrounded by wind and wave,
Awaiting the tropical swell,
Settled on this unwound isle,
We find a time, a way, a moment,
To claim the indefinite future called now,
There is a place for candle and cake,
A time to mourn the dying beauty of the sun,
While I seek divine counsel for a gift unfound,
For if I could, I certainly would,
Return your sister,
As my present to you,
Because you are my wife,
And I love you.
*My wife’s sister died in a tragic car accident this past May. Her sister’s birthday was last week. My wife’s birthday is today.
Southern Baptist Imam
Who does his fatwa address?
The God Bob claims
Made him so blessed
Is listening to
this heretical mess.
A Baptist preacher,
Heard God say,
Kim Jong-un is an abscess,
Rip him out, it’s ok,
I’ll tell the press,
We’ll lay hands and pray,
You’ll kill millions as we profess,
And hope none of the soldiers are, well, you know, that way.
The incandescent necessities of the moment
Demand I find suitable words to describe
The fumbling steps of the morning
Shuffles which lifted the sounds
And shoved them together into something resembling
The time I call now
Utterances from under my lungs
Pushed through the esophagus
To meet the winning bidder from the brain
Somehow the world around me
Casting a net about my face
Pulls and places the pieces of the puzzle
To draw a single word from this strange place.