I like to sing in empty churches;
they are one of the few places
where I can witness
a true reflection of myself.
My voice does not lie when it sings,
not like it can when I talk - it
is an honest enough thing
not to betray me.
I’m not sure if I could ever believe
in God again,
but goddamn me if there isn’t
lingering in the air and the echo
of every church.
I taste it in every first gulp of air
as I open my lungs like gas canisters
and I say, “Fill me.”
It’s something like faith. Or spirit.
Or maybe I’ve been sneaking too much
communion wine in my dreams -
And the soundtrack to the dreams are echoes.
And the faceless people ask me
who it is that’s singing,
where that voice is coming from;
before I get the chance to answer
they name it angel.
Name it God.
Who am I to tell them it is only science
and physics, when they are so intent
on picking nonsense from reason.
They get into a huge debate on God
and faith and reality.
I proceed to drink myself into a stupor
by the blood of Christ.
Call me goddamned; at least my echo,
my songbird call to invisible,
will go on until it bounces back,
or breaks apart