When I felt most deeply moved by the Holy Spirit my loved ones told me that was not where God wanted me. They were right: He doesn’t exist.
Of course I go to church.
The church of Bacon, sucka!
Hey Gods out there – just wanted to let you know something.
Oh, wait, there’s no one there.
Good God, I’m pregnant! I wonder who did it.
She entered the religious school a true believer. She graduated an atheist.
The med student wanted to graft hands onto Sharia victims. The defenders of Sharia cut off *his* hands first.
He got his Lenin hat in Moscow, his jeans at hospice downtown and his duck shirt off a clothes-line where the woman hung out a medium men’s with long sleeves to cover the tattoos, so he could get into the Christian Free Feed at the Methodist Church on Francis Bacon Street.
If he couldn’t bum 5 bucks by 6 this afternoon he would have to go to the holy-rollers church, and find a warm coat with fur inside, and he knew the closet where they hung while they danced, screamed and spoke in foreign languages, claiming to be the Holy Ghost, all the cold damn night.
my teacher asked me to think of 25 ways to use a yardstick. so then, i jumped out of my feet, grabbed a yardstick, went back in time, killed jesus, started my own religion, called yardstiKyians, which then was the only religion, and then i became god, known as yardstick.
what do the Gods ask?
how the hell would i know?
Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Shinto, Confucianism, Christianity, Atheism.
Oh, and Imaginary-a-Tism, too.
Blind rituals, archaic strictures and useless rules.
Work, religion, love, it’s all the same.
Tomorrow at work they’ll ask me what I did on the weekend and I’ll lie and say “you know, just had a bit of fun” or something like that.
The truth is that on the weekend I mocked a few religions, declared a meal “the worst I’ve eaten” though it wasn’t, slept alone, and relaxed my hands on the wheel in yet another reckless game so the car strayed just a little onto the gravel.