Can you dig my grave and sing me out of hell when the profanity-laced Sunday dinner rings its bell. God splits, and Uncle Pete goes back to bearing arms, hysterically laughing into the void in his mind till he finally eats the shotgun shell. Can you sing his head back together and send him back to the funny farm? No? I guess you lost that charm. Mom cannot stop pretending the animals on the front porch give a goddamn about anything other than bones and scraps. She parades around uptown wearing Lincoln’s top hat, swearing at communist propaganda, only to be mocked by those rubbing the Red Panda. Grampa got so manic after winning bingo that he had a hallucination that naked women were dancing in the apple trees, which he dubs arch angels of the soul— for which I say: at least he is not alone. You never ask about my rebellion anymore. It only swears graffiti reverence, so stupidly platonic it’s basically mid-eighties disco. The lights still paint the electric floors, the bloody-nose sweethearts vibrating louder than the music that blares polyphonic. Cocaine angels, numb to the tragedy that is too exotic. Yet still my mind boils in acid because I must chase the white rabbit to God’s great lake of placid, where romance doesn’t give away to temptation. Sing back to my echo, long-forgotten sister, for I am the Mad Hatter in a twister, yet shelter the shadows I cannot. You always knew how to dance with shadows. For God’s sake, sing my nightmares to rot— rot within the holy holes of my soul. Multitudes of choruses sing, for fuck’s sake sing! We are losing it to neon Jesus freaks bleeding ideas across the globe. No more shall candlelight be carried by you or I, keeping the darkness on hold. Let Texas be Jerusalem, for religion now needs a gun.