Worship on the Spectrum

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WORSHIP ON THE SPECTRUM


Running out of the grave

probably looks a lot like that, actually, 

arms akimbo like you’re ripping 


through the cobwebs

of that tireless black spider. 

And what is real freedom if not 


the gall to raise your hand 

and scratch your armpit on the front

row, to tug at your crotch


like a slot machine and not once  

look over your shoulder? 

The seraphim circle the throne


singing holy holy holy, and 

the other seraphim, who 

don’t pick up on social cues,


laugh hysterically at something 

only they can see, which is either

air or the invisible 


face of the God who rejoices 

in the wordless heat 

of their unblinking stare. 

 

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