Monday, October 28, 2013

Rite of the Cameraman Confessional—a persona poem

I never see them come
but I know them,
by the way their fingers greedily part
the curtain and they sit,
lips contrite, trembling with prayers,
longing for visions of saints, of angels.

They plead for virgins,
for whores and silicone flagellates,
for mercy from their suffering.
And I hear the cries of these altar boys.
I hear how they plead for dominion
over the bondage Magdalenes.

Let them hail Marys.
Let them have their fill of Grace.
Place a wafer on her tongue
and let them
see how long the widow can go
before she's begging to swallow.

Get your mites out, boys. Give
her box your alms. Mightily, boys!
Mightily! My weary, my wanton,
my heady-laden boys—give me
your loads! Take my yoke
upon you. My bowels are filled.
I offer you release.

I absolve thee.
I absolve thee.
I absolve thee.

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