At some point fidgeting in the bed you
made for yourself in time,
in the ghetto light of your mind,
monsters, under, will call out, boo!
Your apocalyptic horses fire scream
and the Judgements roll up their sleeves,
some "God" pulls out your timeline leaves
and says, redeem the hour, o redeem.
F*ck it! You go battle under the bed
and find -- boo! -- a jungle of dust bunnies
and laid back ghosts wearing sunnies,
proving that fear can go to your head.
It's not that you have never or never will sin;
but you owe nothing to "God," the shape-shifting grin.
.
This batch of poems first appeared in Counterpunch on October 22. 2020/
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
