Ekklesia

Upon waking,
Christmas party make-up collateral
gathers in the corner of my eye,
while rain pours softly on sidewalks two stories down.

Oakland.

Sunday Morning.

They come,
so many come
from far reaching places.
Some drive.
Others get driven by worn out family just trying--
though they feel nothing to speak of--
to carry out grandma's wishes while she's still alive.
Others get picked up by the associate pastor's van.
Young ones wonder why they must miss football games
and sleeping in just to be bored and pinched on the cheek
by womyn wearing huge purple, red, black and blue
hats with fishnet webs
and lavish jewels on top.

They come, still,
hands held by, or perhaps held together by,
a commitment to something unspeakable, ever speaking,
something unnameable whose name invokes the
holiest of posture and pleasure.

This morning,
they get wet journeying from car to pew.
They risk soaking through and being cold,
just to stand together, just to clasp hands in reverent signification,
just to sing, say amen, hug one another, just to gossip about the sermon
when it's over.
Last night,
some of those well-dressed, verbally pious men
were fucking womyn who weren't, and won't ever be, their wives.
Last night, that pastor drank too much vodka
at the Rotary Club Christmas celebration.
Last night, those kids punched each other playfully for
making jokes about each other's mothers.
Last night, the older ones prayed hard
and heard nothing in return.

Rain falls on their heads, especially those without hats.
For this kind of devotion, You better be paying attention.