Bored as fuck on a Saturday night and
if I’m going to make it Sunday meeting
I’m going to need some hard blues and harder disturbance.
I need fuller pockets, empty lungs,

a shot of something fiery in the syringe,
icy in the needle, nullifying when it hits the blood
and when it makes it to the brain it paints a picture of
some easily accepted new God.

If I’m going to make it to church on time
I want my new God to be a churchdweller, not the sanctimony
peddler of the conventional mouthpieces but a dumb bum
strung out on lack of contrition who hides in the pews

looking to tap me a hard one if I rise for hypocrisy. In fact,
with these drugs in my head and this wrong in my heart
I’m going to need a God with a mountainous backhand
to crush a landscape into my face

so I will always recall
where I’ve been
and always know
where I’m going

as I stumble toward
the place I go when I’m bored as fuck
on a Saturday night, full of knife and manglehatred
toward the holiness of Sunday, hoping for the altar

to blow skyward in a smile of lightning and Biblical
movie truth even while the Bum of Heaven
stinks up a blue dome of rot behind me, making me grateful
for the ruin, looking forward to the rebuilding

as he screams in my ear, “Believe!
Believe, you fat ass apostle, or don’t believe —
I’ve got a creation in me tailored just for you
no matter what you end up thinking of Me!”