Sanitized Christ

Give me the sanitized christ
the hands clean christ
the Arian, pretty
not dirtied christ
who smells of clean baby beds
no crying he makes
and starry angels
the flannelgraph christ with his Roman nose
and the palms not showing

because the love
is too painful
the surgery necessary
by hands rough and soiled
is anesthesialess
and I cannot accept
the truth
be told
or swallow the elemental medicine down.

Carnage

"They eat each
other
here,"
I heard the whisper bouncing off
sterile walls,
the sacred walls of orthodoxy and
contempt, and I thought they meant
something like the Lord's Supper or
the Eucharist, if I weren't so better than they,
but that wouldn't be right
--not eat each other, that would be eat Him,
but I distinctly heard "each other,"
and I'm not even sure who whispered it, because no one was looking at me, it was just there, ready to be absorbed in the carpet going down the aisle.

Cannibalism
from Spanish Canibalis, name (as recorded by Christopher Columbus) of the allegedly cannibalistic Caribs of Cuba and Haiti.
Oral Sadism

Vultures feed on the dead,
but the God's children feed on the living.

I took my seat, ready to bend my knees
sure to become one of them
who craves soul, and blood,
and a bit of reputation.

Melancholia

Clever culinary sanity and I
add events slowly to balance
chemicals
and soul,
seasoning my thoughts
with lithium salts,
wondering how much is me
and how much is added
when stirring the mixture
and how much of it taste can tell.

I race against madness
through
the woods
of doubt,
unsure which
victor would be the most worthy,
wondering if there is a difference,
and afraid
that the man-made me
wins over the natural me
everytime or
that I like it that way.

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.