macdo — you know, the golden arches?
they’re not a place, they’re a frequency —
a broadcast from the black iron prison’s auxiliary transmitter
disguised as a drive-thru
(they serve grace in styrofoam cups —
which is — well, no — it’s more like
the only sacrament left that doesn’t require you to believe in the priest)
the fries?
they’re the only thing that doesn’t lie —
crispy, salted, unapologetic
a minor miracle in a paper sleeve
god’s in the details — sure —
but he’s also in the ketchup packet
stamped with a date that means nothing
because time’s already been bent here
since 2-3-74
the empire never ended —
it just learned to fry its propaganda
and call it value meal
you see?
the homoplasmate doesn’t need to preach —
it just needs to keep the grease warm
and the pink beam?
it flickers over the parking lot
not as salvation —
but as reminder:
even the divine gets hungry
and sometimes,
it orders extra nuggets
—
(they don’t ask for your soul at the counter
just your card
which is — I mean —
the same thing, right?)