Wash and Wear

It is a mosaic made of linoleum,
This faith of ours,
The gospel made palatable by designer coffee
And songs sung in our range in major keys.
It is a wash and wear creed we chant.

Some feel it’s the way religion should be,
A doctrine of practicality.
The dusty sandals of ancient Jews
Refitted into more stylish shoes.
Prayer’s a fine and fitting place
When a smile is spread across my face.

Church on a billboard,
Salvation on a screen.

Faith of our Fathers, growing dim
All but extinguished…
But very fun.

When the magi came,
Did they sell tickets?

“You gave it all for me, Lord,
To bring me glory.
Help me forever tell the story.”

“When the Son of Man returns,
Will there be any faithful?”

“ ‘Come into my heart, Lord Jesus
Because it’s easier than getting up myself.”

“Suffer the little children...”

“I claim it. "

“I blame it.”

Poetic License

They welcomed me in.
And we sat and sipped tea and coffee
And talked about my poetry,
And how I was educated in English,
But not too educated.
We talked about under-appreciation of the artist
And how modern television saps up too much modern time.
And they said they had read some of my “pieces”
(The one on Plath and the biblical one they loved),
And I felt like the long lost brother that they had found
And had accepted as if he never spent time feeding the pigs.

And then I made a mistake.
Like a belch during an important date with the lover you’ve wanted to impress,
I flatulated that I must be one of the few politically conservative poets in Atlanta
And I was impressed that they would rub elbows
With such a fundamentalist.

The round gay poet smiled nervously,
And the beautiful anti-war lesbian shifted until her back was toward me.
And I felt for not the first time how intolerant the tolerant can be.
And it felt wonderful.