new religion

by Joschua Beres

I wrote the holiest of books
on a greasy napkin
at KFC.

I want to start a cult,
without the white robes and incest.
I want the Woodstock Movement
without the Waco ending.

we will live under lifeguard shacks
and believe in pinky promises
trampolines, and tantric sex.

we will carry our lunches
in red handkerchiefs tied to sticks
because we believe in ham sandwiches,
and the open road.

we will throw water balloons
at other cars on the freeway.
because we only believe in popping them,
or pretending they are boobs.

we will use brass knuckles
to enforce the “no beard” policy.

we will believe in breaking bottles,
and arriving one minute too late
to every train station
so that we can board it with horses,
like bank robbers in the Wild West.

we will believe in the magical quality of Crop Circles
and roller coaster butterfly stomach syndrome.

we will believe in climbing trees,
and feeding the rich to sharks
like caviar and bonfires
fueled mostly by marshmallows
and black gunpowder.

we will believe in food fights,
and pray to every neon sign
outside every cheap motel
everywhere. always.

our holiest of days will be rooting
for the 340lb somersaulting gymnast
at the Olympics.

we will believe in samurai sword vs. cinder block battles.
and that Oprah is probably a cool guy.

we will believe in tearing apart expensive putting greens
and taking our glasses off to see better.

we are the Church
of busy city intersection light saber fights.
and beached whales stuffed full of TNT
waiting to explode.

our ism has no name.