the smokey scent of righteousness

The smoky scent of unrefined righteousness wafts through the pews of the church.

The priest loses me when he says, “Mary died a happy death”

This isn’t a remembrance. This is a warped canonization.

A making much of such…

An ejaculative adoration of the strength of a farmer’s wife…

A martyr’s blessing.

My heart hurts. I wake in the night. That it hurts scares me. I hate this feeling. I hear the sound of the train creeping through the center of town. The horn blasts before it reaches each intersection intending to awake the ignorant. It’s engine rumbles. It’s weighty sound loosens pounded nails and trembles the loins of those in town who fear mystery.

It’s still a small town. The priest speaks. I watch him realizing that my gaze is elevated. I am looking up to him. My gaze drops. The separation of church and state has vanished. The train moves through the center of town. I hear its horn. Singular and somber. I hate this man. I can’t believe that my name wasn’t said as one of the children of the deceased. I am not surprised. Still, I hate this fucking town. I so hate this fucking town. The high school drives home on Friday night’s drunk and alone. The silence surrounding my orange ’69 Volkswagen Bug as it penetrates the night. A single car in the middle of nowhere. I hate this place. I hate this church. I hate this priest. I hate this mass. I hate his fucking words. I hate the person I have to be. To hold up and maintain. To present myself in a way that honors mom, family, and farm. To see locals greet the others. Squeezing hands. I love them. I hate them.

Fuck off all of you. Fuck off to those of you who didn’t leave. I hate being here. I hate the ease with which I talk with you. I hate the ease with which I meet you. The ease with which I slip into “farm”

I hate this fucking place. The look on people’s face when they see me. The incredulous gaze. The smiles. “This is Morty? Look what he’s become” I am in a fishbowl. A fishbowl watched by the colossally fucked up. “Hi Larry. I never talked with you in my life. I’m to talk with you now? Talk to your collapsed shoulders? They drag everyone down, cousin. They drag everyone down.”

The smokey scent of 30-year old altar boys sit with somber faces and inherited concern. The smoke of righteousness wafts through the church. I wonder if God is laughng. The priest maintains an even keel as the incense burns out of control crazy like a Marx Brother skit. It hangs like the tule fog on a March morning. The priest, sonorous and unknowing fool that he is, just drones on. The pine wooden seats of the pews are shopworn. The kneelers are screw-loosened, decrepit, and unsteady. I flip my middle fingers in the direction of the priest. Hesitate. My anxiety has risen faster. Make sure Father Sonorous can’t see them. You know who might be watching. I am in his hands. Gaze at the host. Fur their mouths. Gobbledygook and spit. Break set, chase them, warn them. I am watching you crazy

I hate this place. Fury. Fury. Fury. The end of days. Let the tears come from the center of my chest. Let them come. Let them come from the center of my chest. Let them come. Let them come. Let them come. Fuck you. Fuck your fury. Fuck your self-righteous faces and smokey scents.

Fuck your anxieties of being.