The Only Church That Illuminates

Perhaps, you reflected, your creosote
perfume was not the optimal choice
for a night on the town with whiskey,
matches, lighter fluid. Entire flocks
of unidentifiable, perhaps robotic,
songbirds hover around your head,
a monotone crown of beaks,
of claws, hungry for the worms you
have always felt live in your gut,
or perhaps behind it, neighbors
of spleen, colon, appendix. None
will come close to the match, once
lit; all are loath to taste fingers smeared
with butane. This is your life, or at least
the life you have found a way to inhabit.
The target is across the street on your
left. You shake the can. Just enough.