The passivity of dead eyes
and folded hands.
The liturgy of commercial breaks
and trips to the john.
The heart of religion.
The essence of prayer.
Pressed wood incantations
and Hail Mary’s said with
the thumbing of
rubber buttons on the
remote control
bring Nirvana, a bliss.
A Utopian existence in
my living room. Salvation
with potato chip bodies
and tomato beer blood.
Here I lie on my couch
crucified.