Mother Mary

Holy mary, 
Mother of God.
 Pray for our sinners now
 and at the hour of our death 
 forgive us our tresspasses
 and all that....
 I think that maybe,
 God believes in me
 more than I believe in them.
 because the fact that I have not
 found myself astride the graves
 of my  family
, nor have I graced the  halls of any institution
 (in quite some time, at least)
 Family 
shit 
there's a word.

  Ma was the youngest of seven
 Catholic as the day was long.
  Plenty of drug addicts
 gangsters
 criminals
and outright
 fucking nutcases to go around
 Pops payed child support 
and ma loved me best as she could.
 married a good man,
 even.
  gave me a baby brother
 and  two baby sisters.
 I remember the old sandbox
 I remember the summers
I remember
 the Idyllic sound of dampened leaves
 crunching under my muddy snow boots 
the smell 
The smell
 I miss that goddamn fucking  freshwater pine smell. 
I have seen all of America's landscapes 
and nothing beats the sight of a bunch of crass, uneducated, funny talking Minnesotans 
on the frozen surface of Mille Lacs 
the kind of man who lives like the elements don't exist 
The northern woodsmen.  
some kind of fool or loony or just too goddamn poor to move whatever the reasons, we loved it 

The Scarlet Woman

Rose clouds hung in the air
sun is going down
she's yelling again
drunk out of her mind, probably
hasn't slept in days

Holy Mary, Mother of God
Blessed art thou amongst women 
such a wonderful example of 
what 
God has done for us as she
screeches like the air around a speeding missile.
she's waving a knife, the dogs are barking and 
I am in the kitchen trying to pry open a small
portable safe that I had jacked from the neighborhood
no matter what, where, when and how, 
someone always slips and leaves their door open.
Alas, the lord provides for none but
beggars and thieves and men with the 
wherewithal of wolves and
the morality of serpents

My childhood shattered with a flick of a knife
smoked out of a pipe
scraped, pushed and
smoked again. 
The rising sun beams it's rays through the 
holes in the window blankets
and the army of trash, ciggarete butts and
dismembered stereo parts sing a silent salute

I don't think Yeats or Pound or Keroac or
Lord Goddamn tennyson had to 
had to go through this bullshit to become great poets

The Trinity

Blood, water, bone and probably
something to drink. Jameson, maybe.
Mix it in with those 3 things and it ought to
keep you warm tonight

walk the streets for a few years
think about it
Don't go home tonight
find a covered alley, one of the ones with all
the Graffiti and broken bottles scattered about
bring a blunt and 
of course
something to drink
Jameson maybe
maybe
maybe just a sixer of schlitz
the boys downtown are tired of tossing you in that
shower cell

Revelations

Throw your hopes and dreams to
the hounds of hell on your back
turn your heart inside out and scream.
you will find out a way to survive or
you will perish
either way, you
still live
somewhere in
some capacity
just, for the love of God
do not set foot in that
god damned church