Sweet Jesus Sausage
The Man born of the Child who always sat at the back
Of the classroom;
Never an astute, but I learned to read, write, and sharpen my knife
Well enough to cut my way through both womb and city into
The state of Forever.
Picture me in the Camp of Beasts.
I, and any given Night don’t get along.
Is your canine sleep more important than my lion’s weeping?
I’m on fire!
It’s a Catholic conflagration and I’m down on my knees
To Lucifer to put it out.
The Doll unwrapped on December 25 is alive!
Soon disfigured by the nuclear family dog and left
In the winter-stunted grass it grows now with a
Butchered prostitute’s soul calling the chewed plastic home.
The Doll puts the questions to God:
‘In what kind of carcass shall I sew myself up anew?
Where in this town is the shop in which you’ll sell me cheap
Again since You can’t by Grace grant me the Grave?’
-Magdalene ‘s Meats-
There the Jesus Sausage is made.
Whether its apostles or civil worms, they all rejoice.
Sweet Jesus! By each bite we can walk on water, or wine.
Gravity is in the hands of the Damned.