Temple

My body is not my temple
My body is a lot of spit and stone and skin
Made to look valuable

Your god is not my temple
Your god is a lot of fear and freaks and fucks
Made to look holy

My word is my temple
My word is the word that says,
"NO."
"YEAH."
"SHIT."

My word is the word that says your little book and your business cards and your shined shoes standing on the street corner selling scripture to schoolchildren is bogus.

But climb up on your little soapbox altar and tell me to go to the hell I've yet to be shown on a map.



Alright.

Damn me.
I don't subscribe to your organ-playing, wafer-eating, wine-drinking, fear-mongering, stained glass, senior citizen, completely celibate but still fucking the altar boy bullshit.

So come on, white boy, PREACH.

Pray for my soul, but my soul's right here. And it's looking at you and your kids and your Sunday clothes, and your amen hallelujah and it's saying "That right there is something worth saving." But you decided to save me first, man.

I'm up for a saving.

Or would be if your idea of saving wasn't telling me to fear god, stand up straight, sing, sit, stand, sit, give me money because I need it to build another one of these!

You preach a culture of fear.
But mister,
Fate loves the fearless.

I read that on a fortune cookie, which is as good a religion as any other. It even comes with a dozen fried dumplings and some white rice.

Your god told you to spread his word. You call that divine, I call that good marketing.


Mister, I find your misguided idolatry dangerous, ignorant, and hilarious.

I won't come into your temple and tell you to go to hell.
I won't give you a business card, I'll give you a dollar.
I'll give you a dollar and a handshake and a goodbye.
Because, Mister, you're about to leave
You're about to walk out of that door and get in your SUV and drive home to your suburban development and turn on your FOX NEWS and climb into bed next to your emptiness and fall asleep with your Bible open.


Mister, GET OUT OF MY TEMPLE.