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Description
When people speak of god, they so often speak of bright lights, Men with great beards and flowing robes. They tell of sparkling palaces and grand thrones; roads made of translucent gold. That is not what I picture.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Many of my friends in the fellowship of god will talk of growing up in the church, in the faith; while I myself am so new to this whole thing that my hair has yet to dry of the waters of my baptism. Not to say I wasn’t raised in a church, just that mine was of a different kind. My church sanctuary pews were the worn leather chairs who had supported the congregation till their upholstery had ripped and was then held together by duct tape that did little to prevent the occasional spring from digging into your ass. Our gospel was the lines of poetry, the drawings and the messages written on the bathroom walls by those who left their mark in sharpies and the blood of their souls. Our pastors were the baristas who served communion in cups of coffee and bottles of pop.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Our apostles were the regulars, who I regarded as saints, who made a disciple from my sinning soul. Our services I’ll never forget, the small stage made to be the high throne of god and the poets, bands, performers, sung the holy holy holy of their crafts, their souls. Filling the room like the cigarette smoke, heavy in the air so thick you could draw your stained glass doodles and they would hang there, suspended in glory.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
In my church I danced the pow-wow of those to whom this land really belongs, and I learned the songs of those wicked Wiccan women. They taught me the strength of a woman, and put the fight in me to never bow to a man that won’t bow just as low. The prophets taught me to interpret the prophecies of my soul onto paper in words and art. Like the prophet with hands that bled pastels who prophesized the faces of women in bleeding, smudged color who kept paper and pastels to the children to whom he shared the visions. There was a man we called the Mongol who stood high as the angels and guarded the gates of heaven, I swear to you this. I met the elder saints who rode on Harleys that roared with rumbles of the wrath of god. I met beautiful angels there; they were devout members of our church. Those with beautiful holy robes of torn jeans, black leather and studs, scuffed combats held together by duct tape and glue, hair in dreads, or shaved, or cut, or dyed; pierced and tattooed- these angels I still try to mirror as m effigies of beauty.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Walls covered in art, carpet almost too threadbare to be called such, blue berry muffin and red ruby tea that don’t taste the same without the smell of smoke and incense, family of the freaks blessed to fit together simply because of how they refused to fit in.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
We were a flock of black sheep. We were Christian and Wiccan, Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, Mormon, Satanist, Pastafarian and other; our shared faith in that church was not of god, it was of fellowship. We were brought together by our Shepard, a man of kindness who stood tall with a beard and a smile, who preached with drink menus and hard work. He who wore kindness like it was his skin and served up family in a coffee shop.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
My church was of family, of angels on smoke breaks, and confessions held on bathroom walls. My hell was the closing sign on the door that in bold letters closed shut my childhood.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
When people speak of god they so often speak of bright lights, men with great beards and flowing robes. They tell of palaces and grand thrones; roads of translucent gold. That has never been what I picture.
My heaven is of worn threadbare carpet and chairs with exposed springs, the angels are taking their smoke break and smoke as the glory of god hangs ever thick in the air, the open sign like the cross promises salvation. God is working the counter, inked arms, pierced face, dreadlocks. He’s serving blue berry muffins and red ruby tea in a coffee cup to a little girl still figuring herself out.
“Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.”

Description
When people speak of god, they so often speak of bright lights, Men with great beards and flowing robes. They tell of sparkling palaces and grand thrones; roads made of translucent gold. That is not what I picture.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Many of my friends in the fellowship of god will talk of growing up in the church, in the faith; while I myself am so new to this whole thing that my hair has yet to dry of the waters of my baptism. Not to say I wasn’t raised in a church, just that mine was of a different kind. My church sanctuary pews were the worn leather chairs who had supported the congregation till their upholstery had ripped and was then held together by duct tape that did little to prevent the occasional spring from digging into your ass. Our gospel was the lines of poetry, the drawings and the messages written on the bathroom walls by those who left their mark in sharpies and the blood of their souls. Our pastors were the baristas who served communion in cups of coffee and bottles of pop.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Our apostles were the regulars, who I regarded as saints, who made a disciple from my sinning soul. Our services I’ll never forget, the small stage made to be the high throne of god and the poets, bands, performers, sung the holy holy holy of their crafts, their souls. Filling the room like the cigarette smoke, heavy in the air so thick you could draw your stained glass doodles and they would hang there, suspended in glory.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
In my church I danced the pow-wow of those to whom this land really belongs, and I learned the songs of those wicked Wiccan women. They taught me the strength of a woman, and put the fight in me to never bow to a man that won’t bow just as low. The prophets taught me to interpret the prophecies of my soul onto paper in words and art. Like the prophet with hands that bled pastels who prophesized the faces of women in bleeding, smudged color who kept paper and pastels to the children to whom he shared the visions. There was a man we called the Mongol who stood high as the angels and guarded the gates of heaven, I swear to you this. I met the elder saints who rode on Harleys that roared with rumbles of the wrath of god. I met beautiful angels there; they were devout members of our church. Those with beautiful holy robes of torn jeans, black leather and studs, scuffed combats held together by duct tape and glue, hair in dreads, or shaved, or cut, or dyed; pierced and tattooed- these angels I still try to mirror as m effigies of beauty.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
Walls covered in art, carpet almost too threadbare to be called such, blue berry muffin and red ruby tea that don’t taste the same without the smell of smoke and incense, family of the freaks blessed to fit together simply because of how they refused to fit in.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
We were a flock of black sheep. We were Christian and Wiccan, Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, Mormon, Satanist, Pastafarian and other; our shared faith in that church was not of god, it was of fellowship. We were brought together by our Shepard, a man of kindness who stood tall with a beard and a smile, who preached with drink menus and hard work. He who wore kindness like it was his skin and served up family in a coffee shop.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
My church was of family, of angels on smoke breaks, and confessions held on bathroom walls. My hell was the closing sign on the door that in bold letters closed shut my childhood.
Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.
When people speak of god they so often speak of bright lights, men with great beards and flowing robes. They tell of palaces and grand thrones; roads of translucent gold. That has never been what I picture.
My heaven is of worn threadbare carpet and chairs with exposed springs, the angels are taking their smoke break and smoke as the glory of god hangs ever thick in the air, the open sign like the cross promises salvation. God is working the counter, inked arms, pierced face, dreadlocks. He’s serving blue berry muffins and red ruby tea in a coffee cup to a little girl still figuring herself out.
“Drink deeply of salvation found in a coffee cup.”