When I was twelve
god to me was a slicked-hair-man
with stubble so perfect I could cut
confessionals across the bristles.
Because the christian rock band
at church camp in ‘05
made god trendy.
During each service we let
guitarists play our emotions,
prayed to jesus alongside
the holiest of chords:
C, G, Em, and D.
Swaying us like bedside rosaries
they strummed once every two
seconds, kept god’s pulse
pumping inside our minds.
I watched the pastor raise his bible
glaring at my 90-pound frame,
his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt
curling around spreading diaphragm:
Announce your confession!
Hell is moments away
but salvation
is closer!
My mouth replied it is time
in the pitch of E minor
as guitar solos launched
orchestrating my steps toward the aisle,
guiding me like snakes to an altar.
The smiles of my friends informed me
that this is what they wanted,
how this moment of mine
finally belonged to god almighty.
That must mean for me
god only speaks in Morse code
through 4/4 drum beats,
shows his face through
rock ‘n’ roll fog machines,
is solely summoned by sacrificing
vocal chords through amplified sound.
When I reached the marriage altar
and pastor’s outstretched hands
—the guitars cut—
arms I couldn’t resist with soaring vocals
to the tune of “I stand for you”
led me behind a velvet curtain
where a camp volunteer sat waiting.
He grinned like a holy charlatan
declaring next week my baptism
would be the talk of the town.
I replied to him I believe
because I was trained to do so.
But in that instrumental moment
they groomed me my entire life for
I heard in return—nothing.
No holy spirit voice,
no spontaneous spiritual gift,
no one entering my heart
and taking up residence.
My soul was not a
reusable zip-
lock bag
for a
god.
But I still became a good fake boy
for twelve more years.
Every Sunday night I remember
blank verse crumbling from my mouth
in the rhyme scheme of silence,
the pastor shouting as I exit:
Don’t forget to remember god’s voice.
Make sure you buy my CD.
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