if peter wasn't a welch, paul wouldn't have hired those goons

by Leeroy Berlin

strange that they still build these out of wood,
with all the candles i would have thought the fire marshall would object.

forgive me father for i have sinned.
it has been ten years since my last confession.

i've fornicated in unspeakable ways with an indeterminate number of women,
it's hard to keep count on those nights fueled by—
oh yeah, the drugs—a few joints, a few downers, a few opiates.

there's the petty theft,
nothing serious: candy bars off seven-eleven shelves, the occasional dine-and-dash,
pills from parties in strangers’ bathrooms—the pills not the party—
a weekly bottle of liquor from the store around the corner. you know,
the one that sells fetish porn out of the back room.

i've seen your eyes on Sunday morning and
i know it's not just the altar boys that keep you up.

you should get comfortable in that position.
this is going to take a while.
that was only the last six months.

let's get back to the lies: every christmas, every easter i lie to my dear mother
god bless her soul in nomine patri et filii et spiritu sancti.

i make an excuse and keep myself from blaspheming the mass,
you've got to give me credit for that,
it's the one thing i've got over you.

five years ago my girlfriend got an abortion—
how many excommunications is that?
she's not a Catholic.
she didn't tell me about it until months later.
how many?
how many if i say i'm glad she didn't tell me?

there's the lying again—
i wear apostasy to keep people from knowing that
i believe what i'm saying to you now—
how many is that?
how many our fathers for denying my communion with you?

and about the theft—
the duct tape, the matches, the gasoline.
I didn't buy them.
Paper trails.

how many indulgences will ransom my soul?
how many pieces of silver will pull me from purgatory?

let me take that tape off.
don't mind the smell, you'll get used to the fires too.