stillfugue

Some lie about it, some are resistant,
but it seems that we all have it, this carcass
of spirit, so why do we struggle so hard,
fighting the unnatural cycles that come

every Sunday? And it’s every fucking
Sunday, regardless of preparation, how
largely we’ve slept, how consumed with glory
we are about our Saturday. Those who love

their jobs, if they’re honest, yes, they
get poisoned also, and if you look inside,
you’ll see the gray fog made of snakes
crawling in muscular choking motions,

and we act as though we’re fine, as though
church is the activity to save us from our
spiritual deserts, and in the afternoon,
we clean and tighten the yard, we stay

slick, but we know that the only valuable time
spent was in maybe the half hour when we collected
dead grass, dead leaves, and celebrated that
idea that somehow, we’ve survived another week

despite our keen awareness of all the death cycles
around us, we fight knowing that our struggle
is against the real forces, we think we’re winning,
but we do nothing to value this gift of life until

we’re dying, not regretting the Sunday services we’re
soon to be missing, having no sorrow over the ugliness
of our yards that we can’t maintain as we disintegrate,
not knowing why our family walks around with holes

where our spirits should be traveling, should be sealing
with bundles  of infinity, with terminal, unending organs
filled with love.

.