Mama always said
Sundays is church days

     (“to god be the glory,
     great things he hath done”)

so today I went
I mean, I drove there
in a manner of speaking
I mean to say that I was there
while driving
-barriers down, currents flowing-
     >light may travel
     faster than sound
     but the synesthetic sound
     carries [cares?] more than light<—

Methodism is more that a sect{ion of humanity}
and it courses through my blood
    (“are you washed,
    in the blood,
    in the soul cleansing blood of the lamb”)
case in point? my playlist,
-that Holy of Holies-
selected songs,
encapsulating everything I ever dreamed
of expressing
      (“sunshine blinds you if you stare but
      now I see crystal clear
      so hear I am and you can take or leave me
      but I won’t ever be anywhere but here”)

and yet, your rapture will not capture me,
childhood confessions
[if Pascal made the same bet,
why shouldn’t a 15-year-old?]
fearfully found
faithfully discarded

I do not need your τεμένη
I will not cut myself off
[sacred and profane
are the same to me]
–so,  नमस्ते bitches,
bass blaring
     (“my gift is my song”),
this is my own papal bull,
“Judge not lest ye be judged”
–>I judged,
ablative absolutely, yet absolved//
judged others {and myself}
and it was done to me in kind {kindly?}<–
and yet I still strive, mindfully,
strong currents against me,
towards that green light,
until that day
the music stops
       (“and do you have faith in God above
       if the Bible tells you so?
       do you believe in rock and roll?
       can music save your mortal soul?”),
seeking {methodically?} to be better
than I was

so, q.e.d
I will revere your gods
as much, or more,
than you do mine {faithfully followed?
    or not at all? (oh! to be both!)–}
and listen to the music, 
most especially, 
to the music I make
and play
for myself
     (“this is just a part
     I portray”)