in the soul factory, they are busy at work.
rows and rows of conveyor belts carry the entities
to and fro, in shiny tin test tubes
[so that the energy does not escape and mingle
with the rest; so that each soul remains separate;
energy disunited in contained individuality]
now and then, a tube falls on the floor,
but it does not break; it is safe
inside its tin shell.
the workers inject liquid ideas into the tubes
with tiny needles filled with
the essential substances for soul-making.
on the second floor, the white coated
chemists mix some of these substances:
faith, love, patience, morality
and contained truth comes
to this lab in small steel drums.
the careful chemists dilute the solutions
and pour them into cartridges.
the fuel is loaded into injection needles
for the pricks downstairs.
they are careful not to spill such substances
on their white coats, for they stain dramatically.
the other group of chemists reside
in a sealed chamber on this floor.
they cover every inch of skin
every orifice and pore.
complete with gloves and gas masks
each one suits up like an astronaut
they have the most hazardous of tasks
to them these toxic substances are brought:
poisonous, corrosive, flammable and even explosive,
the cartridges must be thick to contain this large freight:
fear, doubt, laziness, ignorance, suffering and hate.
[they are specially qualified to deal with
such substances because they are considered
an essential part of soul making.]
on the third floor is the research team.
oh the problems they compile!
they develop solutions so extreme
to make souls more versatile.
this is where diseases are born
questions with one cruel answer
to secret work they are sworn
creating new kinds of cancer.
on the fourth floor, the advertisers have goals.
they are the ones who write sermons and myths.
attaching egos to the simple souls
they forge nonmatter, the blackest of smiths.
they fabricate these beings to inspire
prophets, artists, priests and saints
the beauty that we all admire
a surface coated in simple paints.
but really, they are just tubes
full of chemical potential. if anything,
they are simply actors, playing out
their assigned roles.
on the top floor of the building
the ghost of god is writing the scripts
for these divine characters.
he swivels in his high-backed chair
in contemplation and occasionally
chews on his gold pen.
this does not hurt his teeth
because they are not real
and neither is he
or his leather swivel chair.
but he doesn't know this, and neither does mary,
his secretary, who calls over the intercom,
periodically, to notify him that someone
is on the line, wanting to know
when jesus christ is supposed to return.
"tell them i'll get back to them"
the ghost god growls fiercly
and crumples another blank page
for the overflowing waste basket.
back on the second floor,
one of the new scientists
knocks over a bottle of truth.
it eats through the theoretical floor
to the conveyor belt below.
the truth dissolves several tin tubes
[which never existed in the first place]
and SOMETHING escapes.