jihad

by Shi

..another Sunday morning…

• reckoning

has come

my mama tells me

that I am a heretic

that I’d rather wear

my unwashed denim cut-offs

than kiss the feet

of elevated saints

 

• Sunday morn

is a struggle

when I’d rather keep my eyes

closed

and chat to a campy dream-conscription

lamenting

in Freudian skerries

than dress in white

stained twice too many

by unexpected flows

‘neath the pulpit

 

• a ratty blanket

too dirty to be washed

is a shield

of futility against salvation

(it ain’t free, no)

that sells itself

by stealing slumber and cuckoo projections

and Chinese soap operas

right before teen show reruns

 

• endlessly

I search for weapons

but there is no fighting

a blast

of the cold shower

or the threat of cutting off my

fiat sustenance

 

• the beads I gather

 

• and I head for the final stop

          in silent feverish whispers
 
          of supplication
 

                                                                         *******
 
 

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