Saints at the Alter

Here and there I'd wonder

If heaven was void or treasure, 

A canvas for astronomy 

Or the lengths of a god to measure. 

Church has its steeple, 

Its pews, its many scandals, 

Filled to the brim with people

Wearing raw denim and Jesus sandals. 

But don't turn a blind eye

To the other hidden temples around. 

By them we all live and die, 

And tread on them as holy ground. 

TV, porn and Facebook, see, 

The trinity of our holy faith. 

But don't hate me or judge me, see–

I'm just doing what the idols saith. 

We're all oppressed by the system, 

Our Freudian impulses bound and chained. 

If only the authorities would listen, 

This country might actually see some change. 

I'm taking to Twitter now, mind you, 

To rant and howl and preach away, 

I don't actually care about the issue, true, 

But I'll share all the hashtags anyway. 

Here on my sofa all safe and secure, 

Reaching into my soy chip bag, 

Writing a blog on the ideological cure

That I'll probably submit to a top notch mag. 

My voice must be heard. 

My two cents in the jar is a must. 

Here's my indisputable opinion, good sir, 

Get it memorized, please, or bust. 

There, it's off, it's gone, it's sent. 

I can brew my mini mocha now. 

Soon the results will be in–

And goodness, how 100 likes makes one proud! 

Now it's off to do my hourly: 

Email, Messenger, and Text. 

All this info overpowers me. 

Better get on to whatever's next. 

A photo stream on Instagram

Always makes the mind go numb. 

Lookie there, Sidney's in Amsterdam–

I'll bet he's having so much fun!

Now my brain feels like manure, 

So I lay face down on the floor. 

Probably should have stayed a few hours fewer, 

But I'm there til half past four!

Who will save me, please, 

From this comatose condition? 

I'm stuck in an arctic freeze, 

A muck of nothing and indecision. 

It would be nice to see a person, 

Enjoy something real and non-phony. 

The doorbell rings–time for excursion?

But it's only the domino guy, extra pepperoni. 

Well, it's fine, I say, sitting there with my za. 

I've got plenty of friends to spare. 

Guess I could always call up ma and pa. 

There's always someone there to care. 

But alas, Netflix is easier, 

So it's to the parlor I go. 

Trying not watch anything cheesier

Than that soap opera from two nights ago. 

A documentary on dolphin migration, okay. 

That sounds pretty cool. 

Haven't experienced nature since May, 

Unless you count an outdoor swimming pool. 

I'm up to seventy likes by ten, 

And expect a surge overnight. 

Predicting 150 likes in total, then–

I can sit back and give up the fight. 

It's an anxious life, waiting for praise

While doing nothing to merit it. 

Tomorrow maybe I'll change my ways, 

Stop waiting for the world take care of it. 

But now the dolphin leaps 

Upon the flat-screen altar. 

Maybe this is my life for keeps. 

Maybe this is my sacred Psalter.