Poem I wrote while bitter in Cincy.

The room bows as one

from a collective belly button—

folding in half like origami paper.

We are connected by

an invisible line: For

generations past and to come

this was and is so.

For the free will to believe

that there is something

greater to give

this freewill to

—blind faith.

I shut my eyes

while everyone

around me sings.

The leader of prayers?

She lost her soul years ago.

Sound only travels

through her nasal cavity

not her heart.

I can’t butcher

heart like that so I don’t

move my lips.

I close my eyes

because darkness

feels more like religion

should—unknown.

When I open my eyes

I see politics.

Harold watches Judy’s

wide ass sway while

she prays.

The old Russian

in the back always

has his lingering solo.

The Rabbi’s daughter

is a dyke.

I close my eyes

because there,

I can rely on my own reality,

and in this world

a god slips inside of me

and resides there in the warmth

until its time for

a second coming.

On a certain date

carefully calculated by

the fanatics inside of me,

I will burst into

a thousand shards of glass.

And this is supposed

to mean something.

zucchini bread is good.