The satellite dish repair man quotes
the New Testament to me, waving his
arms amidst a pile of wire, his own
personal semaphore system. If he spent
as much time learning how to fix
electronics, we wouldn’t still be
here three hours after he started.
Others like him lecture me, those
self-important stuffed-shirt pontificators
who spout the Bibles verses out like water
from a fountain. Literal word of God,
they say. And yet they lecture me
in English – maybe the King James
version, maybe the Oxford version –
but nonetheless it’s not Greek, not
Aramaic. I doubt their God spoke English.
At least those who shout “faggot”
or other insults wear their hate
for all to see, fake Christians
who twist the Bible’s messages
into dirty braids to suit
their own fears and prejudice.