Drunk Priest
genesis is pain,
eons and psalms of it,
a slither among a gamut
of salt-pillared fates.
that birth scream of adam,
it expands still, to this day,
inside a snake mouth of voids,
to swallow the fruit of the atmosphere.
adam’s suns brawl,
constant below a bloody eve.
and the icecaps, those
bookends on our grief,
how they cling like miters,
tilted on this purgatorial Earth,
a rock so slippery and tricky, barbed and obese,
as it hangs in delight and sin,
skewered, as it is, on an axis
of slow-turning violence,
with multitudes of fleshy hungers
heat-wizened and rain-whipped.
god, god stays hidden from us,
concealed by the suns
and their constant explosions.
yes, it is god,
god dismembered,
over and over
by these suns who beget this and that and
pain and light and life and blood and penance
and the desecration of eve,
not the other way around,
for eve, if allowed,
would pleasure and delight,
and even nurture joy,
if only pain were not king, so important
but, yes, pain,
pain is the very crux.
pain is this crucifix of a dinner table
from which we supper,
and so we must pray, forever,
for absolution.
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eds ... same day
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