Some Stories

I've been considering hitting up
the nearest Presbyterian church lately
on some Somber, Sober Sunday
when it's the morning's eagerness to commune
that wakes me up
and not the Headache
not some sardonic hangover that thinks
mustaches are funny.
Because I don't want to feel like
the Service is some kind of deal with
a back-end and lawyers
I don't want ink and paper binding and
memo-ing my desire to
just sit
with some strangers
and listen to some stories.
In the same big room
where some people promise to Honor
each other until they Die
and lie down in the same big room
where maybe some of the same people
say nice things about them
and cry
and Honor them still.
With that church smell
that smells like cub scout meetings
and old books
and people being quiet together.
That shiny wood polished by Gossip.
That colorful glass stained by
shushed giggles.
That Dead Dude forever awake and slouching
in Daydream,
arms trying to Hug Everything all at once
but Frozen.
Pinned back like a butterfly
under classification and study.
The lowlight and hymns
voices trying to sound good together
and everyone there to just
sit
among familiar strangers
and listen
to some stories.
Together.


...
wrote that some Sunday, probably hungover, at the end of 2008 before working a matinee show. i've been to church since (the following Easter) and feel like i got most of it out of my system. ...most of it.
-andy