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Poem

when a parent of a child 
experiences
with an odd mixture of shame,
humor & wonder,
that very first lie
which their children tells them,
does this parent experience the same feeling that they 
themselves did
when they found out that 
santa
wasn’t real?

like the slim difference between 
a hysterical laughing face
&
a hysterical crying face,
that flipside reflection
of being let down by
reality,
comes swinging in your direction,
cornering you in the ring---
and do you believe in some kind of 
creator?

as a parent who will lie to their child about
santa,
will you continue to conjure,
piggybacking on that greatest of great lies---
passing it on like an
std of the heart & mind?

in remembering the insignificance of
praying to a work of fiction,
why do you perpetuate that same 
dissatisfaction that comes in perpetuating 
your own perceived societal obligation
to
believe,
when in all honestly,
you are lying to yourself every day of your
life?

paraphrasing mr. maher in his work of genius,
“religulous,”
certainly, not believing that a fat man with a beard 
could possibly deliver presents to every good little 
boy & girl on this planet 
in one night,
has a familiar ring to it,
when you consider the possibility of an 
omniscient being
answering all the prayers of everyone that is
praying
on this planet,
every single time they ring in.

in a related
tangent:
it seems justifiable that when churches, temples
& mosques get tax breaks,
that in return,
the believers who attend weekly,
should have to wear some kind of prophylactic suit that would
keep their children from being 
infected with
disease
before they have a chance to protect themselves
with rational
inquiry.

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