(click on image to enlarge)
this dominion of tattooed, half-drunk men
is where folks celebrate Good Friday.
choreographed, liters of soda splashed
in foams cueing to festive grunts:
these are common spectacles, needless
to turn into figurative language.
witnessing this trance back to barbarism.
Syncopated moans of worship translate
into jukebox liberties. Palm fronds
kindling bonfires transform into fans
extending the barbecue smoke.
Bodies of amulets fuse heat and
civilization to create a breed of nipples
rigidly pointing to the heart's desire.
not from inherited violations of the flesh,
but from the monotony of faces.
They might want to escape
from the household of illogical cautions,
they might want proximity to the world.
anticipated scarcity. A change of plan
is necessary. Incense is not enough.
The council should sprinkle chlorine
on the cornice, dip the sacramental wafer
in Worcestershire sauce, or order lectors
to bare their varnished skin.
to the faith, where the Savior's glistening
skin is the norm of remembering,
where ministers flex their muscles
whenever the Body is offered,
where folks would say "Amen" instead
of choral whistling to thespian drowning.