An Apology
Thinking back to that Sunday when
my friend and I laughed during
church--
we almost spit the communion
"wine" on the back of the feathered
hat of the woman in front of us, the
blood of Christ trickling down the pew
draining down a universal whirlpool
beneath quaint green carpet and
raining red on the pre-Macedonian
Buddhists
Goutama, you're playing poker with
western gamblers! What is the
truth
behind their dark, tinted sunglasses
what
cards are they hiding? Probability
dictates either red or black among
thirteen numerical options, but what
about truth?
Truth is, we're beside wooden chests
of drawers with manmade scratches
and dents that light maliciously exposes
(If you tried to sell them, their
declining value would be revealed and
commercialized).
I'z(ed) beginning to think you don't
trust me
no more (shhhhhh!)
And to the feathered hat woman--
I'm sorry, ma'am, but I was eleven, and
that joke was too damn good not to
laugh at
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