television has been cock-blocking
my relationship with God.
and the sweat dripping from my
dizzy, celebu-not head
is leaving pools of perspiration
in the shape of do-it-yourself feeling blue prints
on my pillowcase.
and it seems that only after
I have witnessed every house in America
become extremely made-over,
will I learn that what does not kill me,
makes me sleepy.
…like plots in porn.
and Court TV.
and baseball highlights.
and math.
boo, math.
seriously.
numbers make me soooo sleepy
but, oh, how I love to sleep.
when I’m sleeping,
I quit talking and when I quit talking,
I quit asking questions like:
why is California always on fire?
why do my toenails grow so fast? (eww.)
why do I always mention my toes in my poetry?
why is Ashton Kuthcer always wearing a mumu
and waiving a checkered flag in my dreams?
why do I keep asking the snake to bite me?
I know how I sabotage myself, but why?
I know who I need to forgive, but how?
I know it’s going to better, but when?
these are the moments I lose myself.
only to find myself.
every question quilts me closer to God.
every time I stitch myself closer to God,

I freak the fuck out!
and turn on the television.

i think I’m afraid he’s going to judge me for
ingesting too much acid in high school.
I’m afraid there is no Project Runway
on the path to enlightenment.
I’m afraid I will no longer find salvation through
lonely, drunken nights of Sex….
and the City.

but, see, God, whatever this is,
it’s not working.
it just ain’t.

so let’s pretend it’s Sweeps Week, eh?
and you’re the show at risk of being canned.
So, you need to get off your SoapBox
and to sneak into my window.
word?
word.
quit dancing with stars and bring your righteous ass in here.
press the warmth of your lips together
and whisper something smart.
mash those words together.
smash those syllables together.
you know the ones.
krissss-sssssi.
like symbols swarming.
like butterfly wings crashing into cars crashes
on D.U.I highways with horns honking.
like fingers hanging popcorn strands
on Christmas trees in bitter heat of august
and kernels are slipping onto the hot concrete
popping and cracking like my heart shattering
from the powerful fruit flavor of your Love.
you know, like that.
orchestrate your Song to thump beats
through the morse code of my
overheated heart.
promise me I’ll never find you fleeting, fluttering,
sputtering away.
because You are impervious
to my abandonment issues.
and, I'm gonna need that in writing, Sir.
30 day money back guarantee, please.
cause I’m slipping away
into the syndicated late night stories
of me.
my days are morphing into lost episodes
of the silence that fills these four tiny walls.
the silence that shapes the curve in my back.
the silence that makes the spit dripping from my lips run cold.
the silence that pushes me further and further away from You.

so, deal or no deal?
are you in or are out?
‘cause I could really use the batteries from my remote
for, you know, other things….

blaaaaaah.