misunderstood catechism

in latin, in sonorous tone, the priest

of whom i'm not privy

chants to the faithful, a state to which

i'm not privy, hail mary full of grace

an idea of which i'd like understanding.

meh. begin again. hail mary full

of grace intercede for me on my behalf because you know

god's been too busy to answer my questions and the last time

he did it was with a curve ball to test the reach of my bat.

i'm still in the strike zone with that swing, rounding out the last

35 degrees of very nearly contacted.

 like a harvest moon as cookie on a nightsky plate.

(i'd rather 

most times

make a line break where i'd put a semi colon

a habit picked up

i bleeve 

from some pole dancer in a box)

no matter. life is full of at bats. the question becomes how long

you will play the losing game.  god laughs from the belfry

pealing light as cirrus clouds high  above, sunday after service.

your granddaughter, a toddler, spins out her poodle skirt, black patent

leather shoes skipping above gravel in the new parking lot

built recently for easter overflow. we stand, waiting for the confessional

because we don't know we can enter heaven as easily as joining her 

in a rousing game of ring around the rosie

till we all fall down. 

*((*))

they become an affectation after a while. i understand this.

also a signature. no one else will take them if i get famous .

it's my time stamp, early twenty first century bushwacker

takin you back to the lost temples of  early twentieth century .

poets who ruled with iron surrealism.

e.e. 

lookin like eyes, sounding like   laugh.

how could i not go there once again

somehow digitalis poison turned to piousonne

woops that's a french for chicken typo

and we got stuck in the kitchen makin veggie soup

with someone else's leftevers , all there was anyway

by that time, what with global greed marrying global warming

producin interbred offspring so radioactive the ice caps melt.

sci fi is the shelter we want, filled with scientific priests

that only need data, not judgement, punishment usually a bell weather warning

reality show or some pauvich mediation therapy. 

watching that shit will make you feel better 

or maybe you have a desire to be a contestant. 

our retail priests can fill that order. listen a change

is coming. one day the pope will be a woman 

even mary full of grace accepts that. 

()**()

i'm afraid of you

i tell him. afraid of who you were

before. your reality pigheadedly diverse

from all the other participants' who were

there at the time. 

there is a wounded animal in the soul of the early model stay at home dad.

we bound its feet at birth, then told it to run; gave it a hole this string fits through,

commanded dance;asked it to kill in tenderness,  baffled its thirst for blood.

  maybe the wound  was  leaking estrogens in the drink bottles; from broken glass

amd plastic soup stock; or the incredible amount of ammunition it takes to make it bleed. 

 he ran with the bulls in barcelona's streets. the gash he wears with pride

it's the changing of the diapers that pushes him aside

how can a man be reduced to this small bliss

the tiny toes, the random farts 

the tenderness that creeps.

so he takes a knife and stabs it in its crib

afterward he stabs the baby momma been makin 

demands on his time, god damn woman im out

trying to hunt a goddam bison what you doin

all day in that posh office job flirtin with the boss man

i kill you both i'm that pent up, i'll kill you both and drink your blood.

*()  *

forgive me father for i have sinned

yes child

forgive me this sin father?

yes child, but you must tell it

promise?

yes,child. but first a penance.

first?

yes child repeat after me

. hell mary full of mace i prey on thee please inter seed the planet with the fruit of your belly which i call mine, as i am all the will of the world and yours as well, bear me sons to make me swell.

excuse me father?

close your eyes child. bow your head child. the hand of god is upon you.

*(()))****

when georgia met the new  priest at st. francis' feast day pot luck,  she understood the meaning,after thrity five years of marriage to a man who most nights demanded the same dinner served in front of the nightly news, what the word "engaged" meant. there was a reckless haste in the way his cassock hung, a hem caught on a snare, or the outline of underwear in a wrinkle. his eyes were clear, like a five year old, with certainty about the value of life. georgia had been feeling lately as if there were more things promised of life than the rounded rut of her volunteer job, grocery shopping and dinner in front of the t.v. she'd spoken to carl about it just the other night but he merely grunted what she took for assent, never looking away from the set, so here she was at this pot luck tonight. right out of the gate she meets this guy. karma? hardly. god has plans, that's what georgia knew