Guilt: you two-timing, two-faced,  traitorous lecher.
If it weren’t for you, I’d be feet up on a LazyBoy right
about now, sipping Joe like a Folgers commercial—
with better coffee, of course. If it weren’t for you, I’d
be tied up with being free on Sunday, nowhere to go
but an hour more in bed, and maybe, just maybe, a
run of Days of Our Lives. But my life: plain, and horrid;
shaking, and shattering, has everything but calm
on the agenda. Must think, must act, must be, must
do to make the everyman happy, the neighbor smile,
the god appeased and pleased. Guilt! You pirate of the
sea of souls, you’ve held me captive at the mast as I
lust after airborne albatross like some sapping,
sopping sod and ever sea sick wailing—like some desperate
hostage with no one rendering ransom. But that’s when God
convenes a court of some relief, yes? When I can march
away from all despair and sea, head held high, and on
to coffee on the couch—but i’m afraid, in all the deepest ocean of
irony, you know too well the place where god resides:
for that’s where I first knew you, Demon Guilt: in the aisles
of the church of religion. No small wonder of the modern world
I feel trapped and tied, no peace in god, but hope yet to escape
Him—