I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.

I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.

I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten      
the demons of the night.

I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.

I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.

I go to church each Sunday,  
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.

I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.

I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.

I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.

I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?

I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.

I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.

I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.

I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.

I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.

I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.

I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.

I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.

for E. M. A.

<•>

a conglomeration, a pastiche,
two  Italian words affixed,
without hyphen, space, signaling
unity, a merger of a perfect sensory
morsel,

every language unicorn unique with
overlapping skin cells, entangling roots,
so do not be surprised when you,
who speaks not Italian, yet the brain
reverses the words in your eyesight
and is instantaneously understood

I love this letteral literal littoral
literacy
connective tissue that is a humans binding, and oneof my greatest lessenings, is that never
achieved real fluency in my cousined
romance languages, though oft inserted
in my scribbled poesy, for the emphasis
of satisfaction when saying
certain words in a related language carries
a style, a tune, that elevates its conceptually


so friend, multi lingual,
aware of my affection for
mixing, mining words of
multiplicity, makes, creates
a new word just for me:

which deserves a plain old perfect
WOW!
poetfriend
friendpoet
will never sound
as rich, inherently
musical, poetic
as saying:

Amicopoeta