Crossing Your Legs at the Church in Wasson
A night of pistols shot throughout the town. Can’t you hear?
Can you hear them? People falling to the ground, without homes.
“Diseases, they’re out there?” No, Just keep listening to your preacher
Jars full of money. Tips to the lord. Tips to the bank accounts of
The slick haired boys that run this town. Identify as Pentecostal.
Funny how your view of 3 in 1 and yet you have as many personalities as a broken mirror.
There is a whispering going around town. That you’re planning a big get together.
Let’s keep this in Wasson. Invite all the attraction. Sing away the rain.
The money is wedged in our bibles. And we hymn about the snake.
And we shake in unison. Convulse then pray. “Soon we’ll be healthy. No longer
In wheelchairs or watching certain cable news” Just keep this with us & God.
Until the politics shows come on. Then maybe we can get an idea that maybe hey idolatry isn’t
All that bad. “Hey, praise umm…ummm…ummm”
Can’t finish the sentence so you just hum. Until your narcissism shines through,
and the women keep their hair long and cross their legs in the church. Then go home and
Listen to goldmine preachers belch out some new abuse.
This small-town world is fading away, and starting to believe you haven’t sacrificed anything
except your faith and reliability.
When one of yours is dead. When the promises you made weren’t met.
You just drive to your pulpit on another Sunday and tell the nursing home that all of
Our elderly will be taken care of and radio silence.
So sing sing sing…sing away the rain.
Shake….shake…shake for whoever you’re truly shaking for?
While the town is full of your victims. The night of pistols. The falling people and
The endless coughs. Soon you’ll be wondering where is all the spare change?
Old Boss on Friday
On a morning that brewed the dust
A flock of geese flew over the trees
Above your militia hut
You’re the sore,
An enabler of war
The captain to a whipping shore
All your people scare of your stare.
You act the part of a corruptive clown
Everyone believes your lies
The genius that you say you are
You have bought your charm
Like a violation of the Hatch Act.
The women you swoon
The same way you puncture their heart,
At the end of a bloody moon
Leaving it pale.
In a sinister snort of your “sugar dirt”
You claim you have paved the way
The gifts of your smile
And the guns you pack
Doesn’t always make for a friendly holiday.
Vacations with strangers
On some pompous waters that you claim as your own
Wicked and paralyzing
You tell the young blondes what they want to hear.
Promotions, Promotions, Promotions.
A raise will come, follow me like the fading sun
And you will be rewarded with the bed of gold
And enfold you in my shield.
shhhh…keep your mouth shut,
Sign away your clarity for new fears
The Captain is a burning room,
full of many wardrobes and burning perfumes,
Come with me in this hideaway scene
In the glossy ghetto murdered by rain
See you there in your anxious fear
He laughs and makes you his comic book brain.
You are not ripe anymore
Too wrinkled and sour
Your politics too dire to his ideal
Pulling away, from his constraint
He’s got piles of red hats and snake flags.
Packing to the rallies and the stores.
And you are now just a wish
elimination from your freedom
The flight skidding into a slavery war
Pumping at your brakes
Now your mind is an earthquake.
And your solidity as a king on Tuesday breaks down
Like the skeleton of a storm
Broken branches driven over by squealing tires
Streetlights fade on your cocaine parade
And your midas hands begin to fail
Your mid-life crisis begins to feel more permanent.
By Thursday, you’re the talk of the scene.
The words don’t come out easily,
You’ve been pawned and left raw.
Those paisley shirts and Raybans can’t hide your lies
And false charms,
What is secure?
When the floor has been swept away from your feet?
The week will not lay down like a lady at your beckoning dream
DENIED in red ink!
Remove and brush away
Clouds spit out the greenish hue for you,
the Old boss on Friday.
Dumpster Fire Press 