I find God in my guilt. 

It’s rather basic I’ll admit,

The Catholics have a name for it.

But I’m not Catholic,

just guilty.

I find God when it’s too late,

Hands stained red like a pomegranate.

I’m supposed to pray like this? 

When I can’t even stop shaking? 

No, no, just give me a week,

I’ll be holy and pure by then

And I’ve always wanted to hear a church bell ring,

On and on like they do in the movies

I imagine myself in the middle somewhere 

Listening, 

Alone, with all that silence and ringing 

Again and again striking a new hour.

I could be a new person 

But I’ve got that old guilt so many seem to have,

I clasp my hands to pray and all I can do is flinch.

Is this what it means to rot?

And I’ve been in towns with those bells proudly hanging from their house of worship,

Stained glass and all I couldn’t make it through the threshold 

I’ve wanted to hear those bells a real long time 

I check my clock in towns like that 

I leave before the new hour 

I’ve got that Old Testament guilt flowing through me 

I’m just not ready yet 

And I don’t think I’d find God there anyway, 

With all those damn bells ringing.

I find God with a mouthful of marijuana I don’t know how to properly inhale,

A swear on the very lips He gifted me with, my tongue tasting like cheap wine and spiked iced tea.

There are no bells. 

Just destruction,

And I find God in the middle of it, 

bleeding from the inside out.