A Sunday Afternoon

there’s a Miller on the table 

muffled yells from our neighbor 

I took one look into my conscience 

found my scruples enabled

I drive by the strip club down the street 

where all the liberated boys go to seek 

their mother covered in a 

childish dream 

Faith like a simple child 

doesn’t feed on the weak 

there’s no masculinity 

in lust or greed 

when I was a child 

I used to talk as a child, 

and think in terms of 

Lone Identity 

Now I read O’Connor’s stories 

that haunt me in my sleep 

maybe salvation 

is not what i first believed 

well the truth now is I wanna kid 

but I don’t think I can afford it 

you see I can barely take good care of myself 

I hear a voice that keeps on screaming 

you’re just a con artist with a canvas 

why don’t you sell out 

and make a decent living?

I’m tired of these empty promises

of Renaissance dreams 

stiff Victorian moralism, 

courts of impassioned romantics, 

I’m left a voyeur of man, 

an abstract

not a creature 

who thrives between extremes 


I place my hopes in material pleasure 

But wind up chained,

cold in fetters 

Chasing a fallacy,

an attraction to form 

I could have just as easily said pornography  

Or narcotics

Or ambition

as an architect 

any number of finite fashioned gods 

And worship

at the altar of emotion

that goes with 

An existential notion 

That what I see 

Is all there is to be 


God I don’t want to be a fraud 

I just want conviction of cause 

Which often looks like

a faint outline of My Cross 

It’s only harrowing Grace 

That convinces me to take 

Yves’s leap out of faith 

not out of resignation

to a great unknown, 

surrender all 

the preconceived notions 

of faith

Oh, the void that lays before me 

Is spun to mythic proportions

and galaxies 

In the mind of the skeptic,

the modern man 

No I don’t trust his machines, 

Nor post-modern critiques, 

I seek a Person who lives 

And dies like me []

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