This kind of shit is true when you’re an undergraduate. Hell, I like to think that, but I know it’s still true today. This poem “Dog of God” pokes its ugly head out from the college days, after I started working at a coffee shop and told a pious soon-to-be youth minister that I was fired from Starbucks for stealing shit. (It was more than shit, but that’s all it amounted to anyway.) It’s a flawed moment from a bad time in my life, and I thought openness and honesty was a fine way to face down my own shortcomings. It is, and I know that, but that’s something Christians are only comfortable with to an extent. So, the chosen one I took as a confidant—a fucker named Josh W. or J. Williams—told people to keep an Orwellian eye on me, but I doubt he prayed for me.
Past that, I don’t remember how angry I was when I shared what would become gossip, but I am reminded when I hear someone speak fresh, meaty gossip and pretend it’s a prayer for another person. God’s not an asshole (God’s nothing) but His followers certainly can be. That said, here’s something from years and years ago.
Father, Son, and holy shit, how heavy is the cross?
Preach it! Pull out the tongue, scrape it clean.
See if you can still taste how good gossip goes down.
Suffering of strangers is bland unless there’s sugar to pair
with invisible kindness so weightless, it doesn’t exist.
The speech of god, the silence of god, the song the chosen sing.
Why marry a virgin if all you desire is dirt?
Sing to her how you’ll heal the sick by licking
your savior’s side at a sunrise service.
Sing with instruments carved from dead tress,
stumps like crucified thieves’ knees.
That’s growth you don’t want to know.
Sinners don’t have sins, we have ourselves.
But you don’t have a problem living with yourself,
and that’s damnation.
When sinners speak, we’ll confess we don’t seek grace.
We want to show you your reaction
is the god in you.
Suffer the sinners, fools!
They’re trying to save