Closets and Churches


Take Me to Church

My lover’s got humor.  She’s the giggle at a funeral.  Knows everybody’s disapproval.  I should have worshiped her sooner!
If the heavens ever did speak.  She’s the last true mouthpiece.  Every Sunday’s getting more bleak.  A fresh poison each week.
We were born sick,”  you heard them say it!  
My church offers no absolutes.  
She tells me, “worship in the bedroom.”
The only heaven I’ll be sent to…Is when I’m alone with you.
If I’m a pagan of the good times?  My lovers the sunlight.  To keep the Goddess on my side.  She demands a sacrifice!
Drain the whole sea.  Get something shiny.  Something meaty for the main course.  That’s a fine-looking high horse.  What you got in the stable?  We’ve a lot of starving faithful.
That looks tasty.  That looks plenty.  This is hungry work.
No Masters or Kings.  When the ritual begins.  There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.  In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene…
only then I am human
only then I am clean.
Take me to church.  I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.  I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.  Offer me that deathless death.  Good god, let me give you my life.
##Andrew Hozier

Gay people should not join Catholic clergy, Pope Francis says

No room for ‘fashionable’ homosexuality and gay priests should be ‘impeccably responsible’ or leave


the Catholic Woman

She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.

Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.

She never fared well, hot.

She never fared well, cold.

Quiet were her ways.

A tsunami were the words…she did not say.

One sinner could cling to her devotion.

Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.

Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.

Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.

No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.

Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…

strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.

A hymn all their own.

One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.

One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.


Strange at the Door


Knocking came from the door.

The knocking came from yesterday.

If I dare answer it?

There would have been absolutely no corner, in which to place the baggage.

Damaged goods lay in a pile by a three legged four post bed.

The bed, in turn, covered fictional monsters who insisted on always being fed.

Rapping upon the driftwood door remained persistent.

What if the scrapping of buckled knuckles had been… disappointment?

They were forever…lacking an appointment.

I glanced at the bedside table for possible space.

That had already been stacked full with books of accusations.

And, set atop those stolen words…

a vase filled with finger pointing.

Disquieted, I took a sip off water from a cloudy glass.

The chalice had been a gift from those ‘holier than thou.’

Used to be I slurped the water as though, wine.

As if it were my supper…my last.

Were I to allow a stranger into this safe place?

In my heart of hearts, it would have been only I… becoming two faced.

Having had my entourage of trunks amassed with unease…years before.

I sat down, lit a cigarette, resolving to not answer the door.


in Eulogy of the Father

Alone in the girth of thought…

treading into the badlands and the good.

I make a pilgrimage pass the stations of the cross.

A pair of still in life…eyes, watching my every move.

After a deep contemplation…sin is what it is…synthetic.

I am not the carpenter of this ill-fated altar!

Cardinal wine and jewels and mythology shun me.

What is constructed has been done so…

In eulogy to the…Father.

Twilight Confessions

Whimsically showing no mercy…a twilight delusion about the father.

What was it?

That he had wanted to convey.

Had he found someone new?

Perchance, the open door policy would not renew?

Years blinded by the light of ‘please forgive me.’

Chastised by the encampments of kingdoms to come.

Deceptively I had been a place-mat for all the evils done.

Celebrations of the good word.

Anchored to splintered wood.

Blindly, blatantly, above all else, god is good?

This becomes the flesh and the blood.

And, that benediction would be abusively…understood.

As the imagery of crosses burned into innocent skin…took a dreamy hold.

I stood fast.

I refused to kneel to man-made  molds.

Releasing, once again, all the fiction I had been told.