An Apostate’s Apology

I say I hate Jesus and his body, but that’s not really true.
I cried during the Passion; not as much as I did for Batman,
but I still felt bad for him as he hung from the cross.
I admire Francis and his namesake, Wilberforce and Bell too.
Ignoring all deities, we overlap more than we disagree
and work to make Heaven a place on Earth just as Carlisle sings.

I was sick once, so I went to church, but a hospital’s no use
when overrun by the inmates, and though diagnosed mentally ill,
I’m not so crazy that I’ll embrace hate and call it love,
tighten up marriage while loosening my pants for Ashley Madison,
cultivate life while I celebrate the deaths of jaywalking teens,
show more love toward a flag than children who are gay, trans,
female, black, or anybody else considered second class.
Though born again, I’m still old enough to understand hypocrisy;
I understood since I was three.

The body of Christ is sick, covered in its own shit,
anus agape, pouring out keepers of broken promise
from the Duggars and Robertsons to the Camerons and Grahams,
mimicking Ace Ventura as it speaks to the world
and declares itself the salt of the earth because it’s stench
stings the eyes and wounds of every lost soul.
It needs a bath in water, fire, and vinegar.
Scrub away all the Republican. Underneath,
there may be flesh worth following. If not,
at least it’ll be clean.



The world speculates on
what awaits the Catholic Church
after the transition.
Smoke signals search the world
for new blood to fill the Vatican,
but every answer to every question
hides in history.

The next pope will come
from Europe
two generations late
wielding a staff
or a rod if occasion permits.
For the poor and the widowed,
he will cast much money
in exchange for their two mites.
He will not suffer another pedophile to harm
the church’s reputation further–
he will speak out against
homosexuals and priestesses
liberals and abortionists
Girl Scouts and cartoonists.
He will wear an egg on his head.
He will sit on a throne.

The sun will set
the sun will rise
the clock will tick
the clock will tock
the dogs will bark
the cats will hiss
the bees will buzz
the wasps will sting
the wolves will wake
and hunt for sheep

The C Word

My entry for Day 22 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on

You ruined the friendship we had
when you mentioned your religion
in a chat about our histories.
Implications made obvious:
Affections shown–a fantasy
to lure me to your velvet pews
to flail my arms to bigotry.
You spoke so highly of chastity,
but I bet you fucked any douche
adorned with a cross and bleached spikes.

I mistook you for a living saint,
but now I see every good deed
was only bargaining for souls.
The kids you lead, the poor you feed–
all pawns to turn you royalty.
I see the real you brandishing
a picket sign at funerals
of gays and Wiccans–mothers too–
spreading love with double-edged words–
hidden daggers on the tip of your tongue.

I mistook you intelligent
when we studied geometry
in my tomb with coffee and the Cure.
I tutored you Science–fiction
according to your Nicene Creed.
Truth doesn’t jive with Adam and Eve.
How do you interpret the stars?
Do you see the fusion of lights
or think it all angels and signs?
No need to speak; I know your type.

I mistook you for my closest friend
when you walked me to class each day
before you journeyed to your own.
To waste your time on talking to me
was your personal Golgotha–
but I’m the one left crucified.
Affections analyzed, revealed
to be nails through my hardened hands
into rusty crosses I thought
I shattered. Double-crossed by you.