Swearing at the parts of me I can’t see;
walking away rapidly from the spiritual thoughts of you.
I’m disjointed, separated from my Christian beliefs.
I feel like I’m at the bottom of sin hill
playing with my fiddle, flat fisted, and busted.
So, you sing in the gospel choir; sang in Holland,
sang in Belgium, from top to bottom,
the maps, continents, atlas are all yours.
I detach myself from these love affairs drive straight,
swiftly,
to Hollywood Casino Aurora.
Fragments and chips.
I guess we gamble in different casinos,
in different corners of God’s world,
you with church bingo, and I’m a riverboat boy.
No matter how spiritual I’m once a week on Sundays,
I can’t take you where my poems don’t follow me.
Church poems don’t cry.
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