the soul huckster

A soul huckster in a loosened print tie handed me a pamphlet. Feeling lost to an almost irrevocable degree, I found myself soon in a pew under a ceiling that was knotty and arched and going yellow. Switching between ass and knee, I listened to what they were saying, following along with my finger and my voice.

I shook hands with strangers and they said, "Peace." Some meant it more than others, I think. Some were violent with their sincerity. Some had hands that were limp and cold as frozen peas.

There was wine to be had, but not for me, not having the right credentials. I couldn't even have the disc of snack.

No matter.

I listened to the church announcements, putting my pen to my tongue to re-awaken the ink. But I didn't write anything down in the book I have for keeping track of dates where there are things I want to do.

I did though, on the soft bottom of my palm, write the one thing that kept coming to me and disrupting my obedience the whole service over.

It was: "Dear Lord Above, Please Help Me, Rodriguez Z. Cobalus, To Lose His Stomach."