the twinkle-spired cathedral
shadows the barons and the buffoons
who juggle at their pleasure,
the dwarf slaves, who tumble
and bumble for applause,
and the kept women with boustiers
who have nothing left to hide
the barons muse
about tearing it down
to build their palace
to emulate the grandeur
of Rome
feeling useless as
a discarded condom
she yearns to roll down
another penis
so she can add
shape and substance
to her
life
meanwhile
she lies
at the bottom
of garbage
feeling the sperm
hardening
in her
she disbelieves
evolution
that algae
ever crawled out
of muddy waters
their world
ever so
stagnant
first published in a chapbook entitled Juvenalia.
Christmas:
she's dragged to church
protests unheard
all she sees is
the large crucifix on the front wall
the (probably painted) gold chalice
and the rows of uniform benches
that's her church
a still pool in which she sees
no reflection
as she waits for the mass to begin
she detests the collective quiet
for she has grunge
grinding in her soul
waiting
to escape
and ululate
and regurgitate
and hopefully
exorcise her
the priest speaks:
she headbangs
against the hollow talk
of good news, being saved,
risen glory, resurrection
and holy communion
communion with what? she demands secretly
exasperated
she remembers her first communion
but not its meaning; that was lost
in the ensuing hush
even though the catechists had tried to make things simple
but she has learned very well that Jesus isn't into
creating jobs, saving marriages or
rescuing little girls from abuse
and yet, she wonders, people continue to celebrate
bow their heads in remembrance
shoot abortionists in his name
she thinks:
sure, it's a comforting crutch for widows who have
no hope of finding happiness
as shrivelled up females
but there's no excitement, no
hope of it coming true
like astrology
no proof
like psychology
and it's the same damn thing every week
ha! she gets drunk every weekend
she used to get drunk with golden brew
because it made her feel
new
repeated as necessary,
each subsequent baptism
diluted her expectations
of divine popularity
but now that she's older
she's really cool about it
not giddy like at first--
mature
but she tries to keep up the enthusiasm for partying
she just drinks to loosen up
her soul taut with fear of itself
so the words can slip out
words with no thought
but her words nonetheless
words which give her feeling
if not life
drinking is now as ordinary
as her tired conversations
in which she blurts out
whatever comes to mind
having nothing important to say
to her friends
(yet lots to say to the world)
Jesus might as well be
Ojibway or Swahili
the language of her culture
is guitar strums
heavy drums
dysfunctional families
sex and more sex
and misery
and stifled protests
and a tacit non-conformist
orthodoxy
of silence
screamed
in grunge
(copyright 1993)
First published in Adam`s Poetry Page, February, 1996
kneeling to the toilet
she offers a cornucopia
prays to be
desirable but untouchable
looked at but ignored
that she'll finally be able
to wear her rosaries
with padded cleavage
and tricks her hunger