My Cardboard Balcony

Chin Up, Oilman by Belinda Roddie Chin up, oilman: Your time to find gold has reemerged on the hottest of days. The orange goon thanks you for your patience as he turns the stove dials up, and the planet cooks like a well done Texas T-bone. Yep, everyone's boned except for you, oilman. You'll be drinking your treasure by the silver goblet before too long. Celebrate with your friends and wear the same stupid black cowboy hat in honor of your new suicidal endeavors. Because the creek waters are churning out slick, unctuous curses, and the tribes are all raising their fists in unison, and no amount of hymns you sing from your little brown Bible will redeem you from the disasters you plan to cause for the sake of green sins swelling in your festering pocket. Take a lady back to the hotel room with you, oilman, after a night at the steakhouse and casino. Once she's done blowing you, she'll taste the petroleum, and you'll have a hard time getting

I rowed my tiny boat across the canal, where the moonlit cathedral rose like a white marble palace, its spires threatening to pierce the fragile black eggshell sky above. As my oars slapped the water, I could also hear an organ playing, faintly, as if from the catacombs. People were singing in Latin. The great new spiritual uprising had begun.