we do not praise
the lord, no,
not the lord.
we praise our lord,
the lord who looks
like us and agrees
with us and employs us
in the violent ranks
of righteous indignation.
we praise our lord
whether this lord
swims beneath
a microscope lens or
floats somewhere
above us,
but not that
effeminate floating
of an ornate and
largely flightless
bird, no,
our lord,
should this lord
be positioned above
us, floats
the way a confused
cow breaks pasture
in the many-fingered grip
of a tornado. no,
our lord is not
the cow, maybe that’s
more for you and yours,
ours is of the type to
mete destruction
with glee and
mercy with suspicion,
for mercy
is really only for
the weak and the
profane.
yes, we ask mercy
from and of
our lord but
do so only in
the way that we
fly our flags; as
symbols of exclusion
and violence.
i love America,
can’t you see?
i have its flag
snapping and barking
from my very own
home! and i love
my lord,
isn’t that obvious?
why else would
i insist
that if only you come
to see things my way,
you too can be
spared from
the disease of your
creation?
my god is
an awesome god.
your lord is
a false prophet
made from swine,
bovine, and fool’s
gold. this
country is
a country for my
lord, as this
country is for me.
i am not afraid
of death, and this
is why i wish
for it in revival tents
on smeared red plains,
the thrum in the air
a mixture of manure,
terror, and
tornado.
it isn’t difficult
to make the electrical
skip to ecstatic fervor,
in the midst
of all this righteous
rage. we praise
our lord and we whip
our flags and we
will bring hell
to any who dare
question our peace.
the sun sets in gold
and in peach.
it evidences the existence
of beauty. the sun
sets beyond our
postage stamp dinner plate
patch of land, it
takes itself from
high gold down
into deep
purple and blue.
our lord, up
there alone,
wears our praise
like the sky wears
sun’s departure,
in blooming bruise.
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