In a town nobody visits
Isolated by acres of fields patrolled by tractors
The whole town of 300 gather together
For worship.
An open-air church
of splintered picnic benches
The altar a charcoal grill
A fat pastor in overalls and a bowler
that got my twelve year old sister pregnant
Bellowing praises with an oval mouth
Beneath a snowy mustache
Like a feather
from an angel's wing
They gorge on free donuts and coffee
Fried Chicken
Pulled Pork
In a diabetic haze
Their double chins jiggle in united prayer
Stained sweats like priesthood robes
over flabby arms
And tennis shoes
Praise the Lord, you church of lard
Let's have a Hallelujah
Moo, Oink, and Baa-aa-aa
Your stomachs are full
Thus is your cup
So heavy the Holy Spirit
in your sagging gut
Weight, oh the weight
The weight of the food, of your eyes, of your waist
Of your veined, pimpled asses
That Jesus supposedly saved
That you can't feel the whisper of
That downy gray mustache
that raked my sister's nipples
YOU ARE READING
Grayspace
PoetryThis project is the author's exercise of methods using automatism as either the finished product or the basis for stories and poems. Nonsense, jarring images, and peculiar journeys woven from the stuff of dreams await. You might laugh. You might cr...
