Jennifer's parents went to Church.
In their absence, Jennifer pressed
her wiggle finger in deep until
her bed sheets soaked through
and the bruises smirked
between her pubescent legs
like the God she knows wouldn't
dare judge her.
Mark skipped out on the service,
instead he shrugged off his pants
like Vatican vestments, hunched over
his young cock anointed with oil
as he tight-gripped up and downed
a prayer while the crimson
smeared love letter of Mel Gibson's
The Passion of the Christ
cast its sticky familiar spell.
In between cigarettes last Tuesday,
Mark laughs out a cloud of smoke
and tell me blood
is the best lubricant out there
and he can't wait to prove it
to his girlfriend next sunday.
I try not to judge.
As her parents kneel in prayer,
Tori has acquainted her knees
with the rough whiskered cheek
of her living room carpet,
and tuned her tongue to
the blessing of her best friend Amber's
Young, in love, with no White Bearded
Finger Pointer to tell them different.
This is the closest two sinners will ever get
to seeing God without burning.
They scribble prayers into the paradise
of each other's flesh, no English.
In this Church, the faithful speak only
Jeremy and Evelyn attend more swingers parties
then church these days.
desperate to muffle their moans around
something higher than human,
they try to suck Communion white light
out of whatever floats past their parted lips,
every sticky stream curdling
in the smoke scented air
like an off-key Alleluia.
This is a 21st century Sunday.
When the Church has shrunk too small
for real Gods.
The only baptism is the lonely cold shower
for as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.
Our parents genuflect, arms folded silently
as we kneel before lap top pornography
fetishizing our demons into something
we can dance with.
Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothing
but wet bedsheets and bruises,
Mark is nobody's Messiah
but at least he's walking somewhere warm,
with a Passion.
Tori and Amber are the only reasons
I still believe love can last as long as Jesus
promised us it would .
Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgiveness
and open arms better than I ever will
so go ahead.
Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.
Call me your devil, you water walkers.
Go ahead and nail me to something!
Let Us Pray.