Some folks
butcher the bible
into palatable chunks
and cook it
so it is easy to chew
after a course
of antidepressants,
hot dogs, apple pie
and high fructose
corn syrup
infused colas,
oblivious
that their bottled
spring water
was shipped
from half way
around the world.
The late night
televangelist
with an amen-chorus
stews psalms
on an open hearth
with a shimmering
saguaro desert
behind a billboard
explaining
why you cannot
purchase
bathrobes
with food stamps.
All the time
neighbors
turn the other cheek
until they
one-eighty
their positions
on solstice boogymen,
volcanic minimalism
and the heroes
of under-the-covers
flashlight comic books.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 