Need

I need you, my Christ,
Not for the stillness you breath into me,
Great Lion of Judah
Who infuses senseless sand with Meaning.
I need you because

The schoolmaster has met with me,
Has held me after school,
Has tutored me,
And has shown me that I am failing.

I bow at your feet, King of All,
Not for the beauty of You
Who walked across Jerusalem and my soul.
I need you because

I am feasting
On transgression that I would love to call original,
But, truth be told, that is owned
And savored,
The rotting morsels of last week's banquet,
Torn gristle and meat.

More primitive than any manger blessed by your sacred head,
Is the home I offer you now within me.

I need you, Christ of All,
Because I want
Because I
Because no matter
How hard I try
The poem always begins with I.

Dion's Therapy Appointment

Somewhere down underneath the cushions of the couch of existence
are the tiny coins of happiness,
the left over tissues of abandoned grief.

Somewhere, lying on that divan of introspection,
Dionysus, the only god with a drinking problem,
has his therapy.

"When did you first feel the expectations of pleasure

[the Merrythanksgivingrockwelllexus
inthedrivewaywhitepicketfenceofitall]

were too much?"
Apollo asks, sitting with his steno pad.
The patient shrugs the answer.
This is the Olympian Court Mandated therapy.

The unfairness of it all--
death of mother at father's hand,
father's attempts to mother him,
subsequent abandonment by father--
"I wanted life to be simpler.
It's not fair that this is all there is.
Why can't it be more comfortable?"
He sips a martini.


"Patient level of entitlement increased,"
jots the Counselor
as he checks the time on the sundial.