go to Tom's home page
Poem Index
rage rips right through leaving
a gouge, gutting good intentions
alleviated only by awful meanders of mind
leaving the scene of the crime to plumb the depths
discover footage forgotten open cans of sardined memories
salted circumspect preserved raspberries unleashed
by nasty neighbors jellied jism suspending belief in its goo
leaving me adrift in a sugarplum dream long ago gone awry
with religious overtones sounding the death knell the bell
that breaks open ideas of afterlife of forgiveness
of grace ground down by daily deception like breakfast bars
not the kind behind glass but the kind in a little foil wrapper
meant to substitute for real food-
the little cube of bread- this is my body,
the welchs grape drink this is my blood 30% real fruit juice
I am the way the truth the life suffer unto me the little children
the understanding of the phrase lost in linguistic change
should sunday school be so boring?
Should the feeling be one of shame, of placidity settling into stupor?
of thoughts of sore butts on hard pew,
of fighting the fog of saturday night carrying over into sunday morning
yellow brightness suspended outside shuttered windows
while the Man drones on relieved by the singing in unison
with other souls sent heavenward on the organ chord
only to be dragged back to earth by the opening of the wallet
the clink of the offering plate the reminder of the sullen suspense
of generosity grappled ground up by mink collar glimpses,
diamond necklace distancing from the object lesson
go to Tom's home page
Poem Index