Quiet, voices, I pray to my ethereal wreck.
“Beauty in a flower, milk of kindness,
Gentle heart at rest with God ….”. What’s the use?
Time to converse with the rubbing alcohol.
O the fire-juice burns my lungs, criss-crossing
Eyes now alight on bosomy hills. Tight,
I evaporate in a slough of inertia.
I tried for brotherhood of one -- me -- but
Was self-rebuffed. Forgotten blandishments
From a childhood sidekick, sick with insistence,
Causes this cribbing, the stall sash splintered.
There’s a word, a mantra given, I think,
Advancing like a papal bull in a
Nun’s strongbox, over and over and over.
Breathing spasmodically, something’s wrong.
Hymnal pages flutter like parade awnings,
Insouciant, extending spines. I’ll continue
To mate marriage proposals with charred lust.
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