It is Sunday, I am forced to go to church.
Somewhere in there I find the last threading of my sanity,
It is the ghost of my penitent self-respect covered in a garland of emerald clover and the
clover’s pink and white little buds tied together by the stem.
Last night I had the most psychedelic dream over and over with colors rotating while I watch
her leave me and leave me over and over
And again
And again
And then I wake up.
It is Sunday, I am forced to unearth the bones of an indulgent week and shake the remains
like an old carpet.
I know the preacher’s insane because she whispers about Margret Thatcher and the Black
Dalia murders.
I think to myself about how maybe everything really is connected, but then I wonder if true
then what does that really mean.
I’m thinking about this as we ask everyone to pray for our loved ones fighting cancer and
terrorists,
My Dad stands and asks everyone to pray for my safe flight to see my grandparents, so
everyone goes silent in prayer and I wake up at the sound of silence,
And all of the congregation says that prayer will not be enough if I have not accepted God so
they crowd around me and pray with their hands on my back while I am bent over and wish
them all to hell because I failed at being God’s son.
And then I realize that I am dreaming and now I am awake.
And it is now Sunday and it is time to gaze up into the light and frown upon the sinners and
bow down to his glory and Praise The Lord. Hallelujah.
And then I am in church and I can’t raise my head.
It is Sunday, I am forced to go to church.