Postulating

If money is the root of all evil then why do we pass a collection basket around the church?  We broke our backs lifting Moloch to Heaven, the leaven dust unsettled on our minds, molding festering fermenting a sour apple mash hidden deep in West Virginia wood hearing range of Episcopalian waders in the holy lake who make a mockery of me again and pass me from hand to crippled hand as an old woman becomes a burden on her family after birthing and raising them all to know God, one would think they’d carry her lightly but they go fighting into that deaf night, the cleft lip and marked mire for where to hide a sinful body, the warm blanket coddle, worry and wobble like a top spin, tumble weed through a no horse Texas town sprung up eerie around a gas station on a desolate stretch of highway.  We better fill up here, we don’t know when we’ll come across another one, I reckon we aren’t from around these parts they don’t take kindly to our type, hock us off as lose witted and too friendly, take a look at them pearly whites, no way they’s real, steal me away from here on a stagecoach bound for Montana homestead and copper mines still manned by hands into great wooden baskets carried on a shoulder yoke like having wide woman hips, a forty foot goose and wing span, spatula and pan, slap a Thanksgiving dinner together like it’s nothing and not for nothing we praise His holiness o Father forsake me not unto your patterns of hopeless wealth, save us from the pittance of human madness that strangles itself reaching for air as if it were tangible, a handle on how things are, how we lived since the beginning of modern Judeo phallic worship we can’t have women at the front because men will forget their duty, be true to me and all that is forgotten—