Enough Blame

How ineffective God must be
that he would have created me.

This thought thaws everything,
turns heads downward,
the breaking ice, the sidewalk
rising, falling, repeatedly cracking
the bones of your beloved
mother's (world) weary spine.
She serves you
her delicious ribs,
always the martyr, made
of guilt and sacrifice.

Nevertheless,
you go on, drawing breaths,
exhaling guns. Gun metal
tastes like death; the bullets
are loaded with fun.
Because its Saturday
something is going to happen.

My flaws are raw,
boiling with infection.
There is a fever
that accompanies living,
that keeps death
amused.

Under their robes, the judges
wear nothing
(but their pride and their shame);
and I know all their names
by heart.

Human, all too human
you are in the dock
waiting; but your ship has sailed.