Three Prayers – Gray

Gustave Dore 1870

Gustave Dore 1870


 

Dear God of Convenience,
Holy lord of microwaves and refrigerators
and the frozen meals born from them.

The savior of remote controls,
and air conditioning.
The most American of all Gods.

I worship you by waking up
and ignoring everything.
I’m fine with global warming
as long as my air conditioner works properly.
I worship you down the aisles of the grocery store,
a whole harvest at my grasp.
I worship you at the mall,
millions of foreign fingers accessorizing my wardrobe.

None of it is enough.  It never is, which is hard.  I don’t like hard things.
That’s why we put cushions on our seats.
That’s why we have churches.
Conveniently, though, the liquor store is too far away.

;lkd[qer98n-9nv9qernv[9eahv[oivna[98 -n
That line is for you, God of Conveniece,
because when I can’t think of anything to write,
I just flap my stupid fingers against the keytop 
until I just give up completely. The truth is, there’s nothing more inconvenient 
than praying to the god of convenience.
We pray to be closer, but who has time to be close?
That’s why we have social media.
Can’t you just accept my friend request, God of Convenience?
Can’t we just like each other’s status updates and send each other pokes?
That’s a faith I can believe in.
And everyone has something to say and they say it so much that no one really has 
anything to say at all and everytime I have something to say I just end up saying 
something that I did not mean to say and that is why now I am here, naked in the 
middle of my living room, covered in strawberry jam, don’t ask why I am covered in 
strawberry jam, that’s between me and the God of Music Boxes!

I’m in a hurry, as you probably know and there’s not much else to say.
I mean, you’re great.
Probably the best god out of the whole bunch up there.
As an American I have so much the give thanks for,
etc etc.  Thanksgiving, and so forth.  Blah blah blah, I’m white,
but I’m not tall, 
so, I guess you could do a little better.
We could all do a little better, though, if we had more time.
This is not my finest prayer,
but it’s not about quality.
I’m sure you’ll understand.

Amen.



Dear God of Economics,
The close brother to the God of Math,
The distant cousin of the God of Adulthood,
which is to say
I wish you didn’t exist.  But, as is the case with most Gods, you must exist.  
You might as well be the God of Empty Pockets,
the God of Overdrafts,
you Old Testament type.
I don’t trust your boom busts,
and your tendency to crash.

Dear God of Economics,
I’ve only heard your gospel
through untranslatable radio transmissions.
Even your greatest prophets struggle with the concept.
So I don’t feel all that bad.

There are so many Gods I pray to
before I pray to you,
I beg each one for redemption,
but wine keeps stumbling into my mouth,
so they must not be listening.
I have a small box full of silver sobriety chips.
a shiny new one after every relapse.
I should feel like a rich man,
But, the more I collect, the less each one is worth.
That’s how inflation works, I suppose,
At least, I think so.
You never imparted your wisdom upon me,
God of Economics.
All I know is that 
they won’t take sobriety chips as payment at the liquor store
Nope, they only care about real money,
not the long hours each coin is worth.
That’s a whole different type of labor.

Dear God of Economics,
I am afraid I am a communist,
I’m just not the monetary type.
I believe in other economies.
The ocean’s economy comes in waves.
A whisper stock of circular songs.
I’m heavily invested in heartbeats.
The outlook on futures is hopeful.
There’s always a hand or two
every week, eager to hold my crash
I arrive in debt
and they give me full credit.
Forgive them for their defiance.

Amen.



Dear God of Relapse
is that you
coming for me again?
I thought we quit
teasing each other.
but you finger my liver.
You make my tongue dry.
Every time I feel your hot breath
like the longest drought in recorded history
I clench the chip harder.
Sometimes I’ll be good. 
And then I’ll be reading one day
and the words melt,
and all I can think about is you
you you you you
the taste of you
the hurt of you
the scratch of you
the full of you
the way that you expand in me
you furious me
you brainfulls of tummyjunk.
I walk down the street with mouthful
of liquid nickels and a silversmith in chest.
You come to me when I’m all West Desert.
You come to me even though I prayed not.
You pray to me.
You desperate God.
You pray to me like an apology waiting for an accident,
a bruise waiting for a fist.
Put me in your mouth, you say.
All of me.
I try to fit as much in as I can 
before choking.
You become the body and the blood of me.
Amen.

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About Gray

Gray is best known for crumpling up paper into a ball and throwing it behind him. This paper contains words, like a love note, or an apology (or both), the syntax of which he is never be quite satisfied with. He has fallen in love and apologized so many times that the living room and dining room of his apartment have become completely covered with paperballs. He refuses to carry them to the garbage, because he likes to be reminded of failure. There are enough paperballs to completely cover the entire floor of his apartment 5 feet deep. He has a fondness for jumping off of furniture and into the balls, swimming through them from one room to another. This activity reminds him of leaping into leaves in Autumn. Sometimes he writes love letters to the apology letters, and sometimes he writes apology letters to the love letters. Once the collection of paperballs reach the ceiling, Gray will be forced to rent another apartment. He will still he maintain the original apartment with the paperballs. He'll continue returning to it until he can discover the perfect way of saying "I love you, I'm sorry." See more of Gray's writing at graypoetry.com View all posts by Gray

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