Rite

The religious menace sells white-out

by the gallon to the sinner;

the saints rolls it on with a flourish

and a traitor's kiss.

Dingy collars sparkle in the florescence

of their blessings as they stand in front of the Son

covered in the rot and green of greed.

For they are not ashamed of

their blind adoration of the pulpit;

of the bloody, blind sheep they prod

and skin each week.

The Great White State cries, "god".  While

the forgotten masses cry, "God".

He will be found in the turbaned heart,

the battered wife, the dripping

fetus, on death row and the lonely quiet soul

void of satellites and Maybelline.