contents under pressure. do not puncture or incinerate container.

you're born in the county hospital, given a strong-
sounding christian name. exactly one lifetime later,
in the same county hospital, you die. buried
in the family plot lying adjacent to the church
where you went for a month of sundays
when you were young, given the pink-or-blue
testament appropriate for your place
in the lockstep. across the street,
the high school where you played four years
of varsity ball. won homecoming king. brought home
a trophy, took the prettiest girl to the prom.
had your 8x10 glossy framed with the medals
that hung around your neck. now that moment
is suspended on the walls of the town barbershop,
where old men grow older, remember
their former glory & its extinguished flame.
they remind you you'll never be half as fast,
half as strong, half the man your daddy was.
when you have a son of your own – and you will
have a son of your own – your friends will sit,
aging on those same chairs smelling of barbicide
& leather, point at your photo now cracked
& folded on the wall. they will impose on him
the same nothings that are now being screamed at you.
you will teach him to throw a spiral
so perfect his worth will never be questioned.
raise him up to drink beer in the woods
on saturday to celebrate the victory over cross-
town rivals on friday, then go to church on sunday
& erase all stains of wickedness for another week.
you will vote republican because your daddy voted
republican, because his daddy voted republican,
& his daddy's generation won the war. beneath
your eyes, growing dull & lifeless by the year,
a smear of dust and grime – soot from the factories
or shit from the farms – covers an omen written
in fine print.
nothing this familiar could ever be unsafe.

pine ridge holiness camp, 1989

sunny rd. // lickingville, pa

it is camp meeting time & the preacher stands
next to the wood pile with a six-gun on his hip.
he towers over our assortment of sins:

the rock records filling our ears with temptation,
the stacks of dirty fiction drawing us away
from christ. we are gathered here today to confess,

to purge with fire all the wickedness from our ways.
we lay our burdens down, stack them like tinder,
& the deacon is ready with his blowtorch burning

white hot like the hand of god. he raises the flame
in wait for his calling, but the preacher steadies his hand.
whispers not now. steps back ten paces, plants his boots

in the dirt, some old television standing terrifying
in its splendor. a dark monolith, screen blank
& gaping as the mouth of hell. the preacher swells

with holy swagger & unbuckles the holster. extends
his right arm, stiffly, fearlessly, every muscle locked
in righteous anger. & we hear the click as the hammer drops,

the echoing boom of supersonic lead, the implosion
& the shattering glass & we taste the smoke,
the acrid stink of wires & vacuum tubes combusting

as the preacher stares at the cloud of dust – half in awe,
half triumphant – shouting to the heavens do you see?
that's the devil there, swirling in the sky like so many

frightful black crows, can you see him? do you see
the things i see? & filled with faith or fear
the congregation says amen.