I want to touch,

to be the only one with God;

I don’t like the crowds that press

like lava oatmeal

sticky sweet.

I want to be the cocaine lover

high, higher, highest in significance

obsessed and cherished,

his personal treasure chest of emotional

medicine.

Oh why do we gather like flocked sheep

bleating 3/4 time,

a machinery choir passing gas to God

as created incense:

“We made it ourselves, aren’t you glad?”

Why do we do it together —

to seek the Guinness Record of Heaven

for prayers so loud they break

the worship meter needle?

God, why do you want to hear this

earthquake noise?

I would rather be your ghost friend

squeezing out my sponge heart

of its solitary praise,

than railing and screaming at

carnival church.

Can’t you shut down the rides

and pay attention to a mute boy

dragging unused tickets in the dirt?

I don’t want to ride the lust octopus

or the merry merry-go-round

or the philosophical saucers;

I just want to stand beside you,

holding hands beneath the neon stars

like lovers on an endless night.

Spiritual Borg

11-30-1986