I Cornered the Mormons
I invited them into my home
to talk about Jesus
but really I wanted to get their advice
about fixing the split plaster in the corner
of my kitchen, before I realized
it’s actually the Amish
who are known for their handiness.
I offered them a glass of water
and, like all polite cult members on a quest,
they said yes. Poor fools.
Did they not understand that one glass
would lead to a shouted battery
about the landlord who fucked me over,
the friend who still owes me money,
the ex who only calls
when I have to bail them out of jail.
Poor poor mormons.
Can your many wives and your
straight edge lives not save you
from the lines of cocaine I will do in your presence?
Or from the Coors Light I will offer you
for a third time, forgetting the previous two
that you said “no.”
While you clutch your precious Book of Mormon
I’ll excitedly show you my own copy,
stolen from a vespers chapel in New Mexico
and annotated with vitriol;
“Here’s what I think
of Joseph Smith, motherfuckers!”
I cornered the mormons.
In their stiff starched shirts
and black ties shaped like question marks,
body language giving way
in every way it could.
They will graciously try to leave;
“We must get home to our
temple before Satan comes
to touch our feet
in the night.”
They didn’t say that,
but they did.
And another line of blow.
I can see them giving up on me.
I cornered the mormons.
“No, don’t go!”
May I interest you in my lord and savior,
Baphomet!”
God of wine and goats or some shit like that,
or maybe it’s the devil. I don’t really know,
and honestly, that’s kind of what I like about it.
And maybe you’d like to know,
while I have you here
in my hall closet to see the molding
that might need to be replaced,
that you are not the first
innocent bystanders to get caught
up my cobwebs.
I cornered the mormons
because sometimes god
sends you suckers who think
he wants them to put up
with your shit.
