some days, i walk around feeling like a worthless piece of shit
some days, nothing can humble me, not even contemplations of mortality
some days, i’m tickled by the thought of suicide as revenge
some days, i come to the conclusion that the most defiant thing i can do is sit my ass down somewhere and just meditate on being a good person

but then i snap out of it and find someone to start a fight with

some days, i consider for just a second that this life is not about me
and that no matter what pops into my head
i’m not the first to think it
and not the first to think it matters
a hero is the one who simply plays their part
when its time
and some days, i recognize
that just maybe
i wasnt even born to be


“a god despondent”

the faithful gathered ’round
waiting for audio visual presentation
dreams of progress
visions of evolution
preparatory course of action for spiritual warfare

the people prayed to a god whose hearing had been worn out by Vietnam protests
deafened by megaphones telling of mass murder
tuned out by wielded pens with which to sign lives away
cutting checks for torches unquenchable
with which to burn village children

the people lift their arms to a god
whose purse strings have been sapped
by fair trade stickers
selling for 4 times the price of a slave

they lift their voices in worship to a god whose appetite for music was quenched at Woodstock
by saints in the ecstatic throws of the spirit, praying illegible, unutterable prayers
speaking tongues unaware

the heavenly patriarch plugs his ears because dub step is a reality
he squints his eyes tightly shut
because Donald Trump is a viable political candidate
he cries himself to sleep every night because the 2008 market crash resulted in no charges
and British petroleum remains the unregulated hegemon of southern coasts and waters
ruthless gods of the treme trawlers

god is gripped by Great Depression
god is an indomitable woman not dissimilar from Nina Simone
but still we call out to “him”

God slits his wrists because Angola is still a plantation
and refuses his therapists scripts because Vincent Simmons is still in prison
for a crime we all know he didn’t commit

God would jump from the bridge by the Trump
but he’s not sure if it’s high enough
and even so he fears the chaotic pain of drowning

yet She is endlessly hounded by hope in hidden places

god tips his hat to the radicals
the rebels and the protesters those who offer up sacrifices from this bitter earth
burning cvs with the flames of fervor
“We bring the sacrifice of praise, into the house of the LORD”
God bows his head before survivors
God knows
the prayers and preparations for spiritual warfare
are a retreat from the material suffering that plagues the surface of the globe

when profitable non profits are considered heroes
god doesn’t want to hear
contemporary Christian music
even if the music minister has tattoos
because the music minister has always been a self absorbed deceiver

the strokes different though they be
must be for the folks
If not, god runs out of hope

he lays back on altars of ash
puts a tape in his deck
he’ll go out
listening to johnny cash

so he throws himself into a lake of fire
because the flames weren’t getting any higher
and he doesn’t want to wait for judgement day
for the sins of this bitter earth
to swallow us