The September Sonnets: X

every Sunday morning i hear the cat's meow
[and the rocket ships take off with a thunderous roar]
while i contemplate staying in bed
[on the off chance there might be some fucking]
i can't help but think the little kitty has it easy
[because that little bastard doesn't have to worry about it]
and i think the church bells will finally make me rise
[or maybe the screeching call from my mother 30 miles away].

i can hear the solemn hustle of children walking to church
[because they don't know any better and they're too young to drink]
with their parents in tow: i think of how my mother used to take me hand
[and by "take" i mean forcibly grab]
and lead me to St. Mary's where the priests spoke broken Spanish
[which is completely idiotic because neither my mother nor myself could speak it]
and we sat still for an hour where i would sit and reflect
[about how fucking stupid it was that i was there]

as i lie in bed i think about what the cat would do
[if the fucker had a goddamned brain]
if faced with this dilemma of mother and God
[which is the lesser of two evils?]:
would he simply lie there as i wish to do
[and maybe touch myself out of sheer boredom]
or would he rise and face the stares of the parishioners
[because Christ knows they've never seen me before]?

here i lie, torn between the foundation of the self
and religion
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