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Passing a Church


by P.R. Mercado


Does God feel the same way
whenever you practice your indifference toward me
by neglecting appointments, by arriving from New York
without the socks I asked for, by not kissing me?
If he does then I am sorry I am hurting him.
I am sorry I cannot feel love for you the way you feel it for me, Lord. 
I've heard the rumors: trumpets so shrill they cause walls to crumble. 
Genocide because you were feeling a bit iffy.
A city of homos turned into disco inferno. 
You efforts, insofar as I have read them, are noble and brave. 
I don't think I'd last that long on a cross. 
I'd blast those motherfuckers right down the hill.
“Father, forgive me. I know exactly what I'm doing.”
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