Sunday mornin’

Do not spend too much time at places where people wear name tags.

photo by hungrybison

It is like a hole in their chests,
where their soul seeps out
like the watery, blood from a wound.

The story goes on,
Do not spend too much time in the “house of God”.
The house itself is fine,
It is the entertainment that wrecks you, damages you like a Nebraskan hailstorm.
Stage left,
the heavenly host, silent.
Stage right, a preacher in spasms,
words and spittle fired from his wax shined face,
“Amazing Grace!”
In God’s love,
you’re all  included,
one and all,
together, as one,
and
on an individual bases,
separately,
alone,
together again,
together then  alone,
lonely.
Lonely as
dirty shirts,
waiting,
for washing,
waiting,
for a woman’s hands,
skin like suede.

Still waiting.

A half a bottle of scotch to douce
a fire trail,
and I got to hang out with Hank Williams Sr and Jesus.

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Filed under original writing, poem, Short stories and essays

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