From an inanimate perspective…

All you can do

Is hope that you have

What it takes and that

You’re on the right path

Such that once you

Stop skidding along

And start to give back

You finish just before

Your goal arrives.

You’ll split your target

Exactly in half:

Perfect pocket hit.

Prayer

Prayer is the self admitting desire.

It inspires analysis of an individual’s path in life.

Prayer serves as a motivational crutch.

Instead of asking for help to succeed, just admit that you want to succeed.

Burdened

A tear leaves a cold trail down my cheek.
It drops off my chin into the bathtub.
It sends ripples across the cold water
Down to my wrinkled toes.
A shiver follows down my spine.
As I let the water drain out around me.

The Heartland

Waiting in the Drive-Through Line
For High Fructose Cow Patties
The twelve-year-old squeals
“Mom close the window
The smoke is getting out.”

We’re All Going to Hell, Together

I count the minutes until church is over.
Slowly letting my eyes close, my head tilt back on the pew.
A subtle firm pinch wakes me up.
The beautiful New Testament Music starts.
I sing every note with authentic enthusiasm.
The music means it is almost over.
Almost time for juice and playing with friends.
I see each of them, stationed between parent figures,
Waiting for juice to wash down the Christ Cracker.

I sit in Confraternity of Christian Doctrine.
Catholic Christian Doctrine
Chocolate Covered Donuts
Central City Dump
CCD, not Sunday School.
A beleaguered Soccermom, the teacher.
Chosen to pass the Truth to the next generation of catholics.
Serving her 100 hours for possession.

“I don’t believe in god.”
Finish your worksheet.
“Are you going to give me an F?”
If you don’t finish your worksheet.
“Do you think I’m going to Hell?”
No.

Sweet Deal

I feel a twinge of guilt,
I try to count the total in my head. Over a thousand. Hmm.
Unclemen drink light beer, still smelling of aftershave.
They boast their avoidance of church
Since the last round of First Communions.
We’re all going to hell, together.
The guilt fades; must be a catholic thing.

A Dream

You walk along past familiar places, the street you grew up on.

“This was your driveway, where you learned to ride a bike.”

“This was your friend Marc’s house. You played catch here.”

“This was where you contracted a cold by eating dirt on October the twenty-third, the year of our Lord nineteen ninety-nine.

Pause. “This is tragedy.”

The group shuffles to a stop.

A swarm of bees surrounds the trunk of a fallen tree.
A mass of bees. A oneness.
Its high-pitched buzz hits you in waves.
Fear washes over you. The tour guide beckons you.

“If everyone took just one handful, the bees would be gone.”

“Won’t you please take a handful?” pleading like a child.

Waiting, no one moves. Heads turn back and forth.

You follow orders. You take a scoop and grasp it tight.

At first they seem to be stinging each other, slowly dying out.

The first sting comes. Sharper than I expected. I feel foolish.

The bees seem to sting in unison now, a concerted effort to escape. I hold fast, unwilling to admit defeat.

I stare down at my hand: a white, swollen, throbbing replica.

The experience dissolves around me in a swirling mess of pain.

I wake up, smiling at the silly dream.

“I have a dream, where one day people will grab handfuls of bees to escape the reality they have been subjected to. To feel the freedom they have always ignored.”

I swell with pride. It quickly deflates as I wake up more fully.

Goddamn. I’m sorry Dr. King. I got carried away.

Awake for ten seconds and I’m already apologizing to dead people. Good start.