Selling Splinters

When the fat man with the fish lips collects his debts
I’ll be a few life years over my preconceived vitality.
I’ll hang spitted on the interest spike oh so past due,
With my back arched and innards for all to see…finally.
He’ll tell me to sign here, sign there slit your wrist here
And bleed there, under the miniscule ignoble fine print.
He’ll let me climb the holy beanstalk to a so called sultry salvation;
My record is unclean and my hands even dirtier as I sleepwalk the line.
The doorman at the pearly gates will rebuff my surly attempts
At a redemption so obtuse, locked outside but left a glory hole
Just so I can watch the going-ons of the able and willing,
Wondering whether heaven has some godly plumbing system
To wash away the waste that the blessed ones spout.
I’ll be the voyeur while St. Peter checks out my ass.
Making sure I’ve had no penetration old testament style.
I’ve never met Leviticus but I lived life like Lazarus
And for that I am pushed wayward into the art of limbo.
This is the waiting room of the cosmos so comical.
Left with nothing but US Weekly’s next to the holy water
As Joan of Reception gives the cattle call down the number line
I’ll have to fill out a questionnaire asking me the meaning of life
Because god knows that God surely doesn’t know.
So I’m left on the bench shipped straight from Golgotha.
A substitute for a losing team lost in its own redundancy.
While the opposing side is pitching a no hitter 
And I’m left praying for a trade agreement 
Before damnation makes his cuts down the deadline.
Maybe I can play for that new existential expansion team
Just as condescending and holier than thou as all the rest.
But we can't all just pick and choose our diatribes and deities,
That is for the sinful spectators justifying their personal jurisdictions.
Maybe I just rather be the universe’s hot dog vendor
Selling commodities to the drones of worship.
Collecting my savings to buy my way out 
Of a heaven caught in purgatorial self-importance.

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