I know two older men that I used to care about, that go to the ER about 100 times each per year. Costing 100's of thousands of dollars to medicaid and medicare. As far as I know they never really paid taxes, which really doesn't matter to me. They go to the ER, only to be sent home, as their insurance is billed. One of the men, went to a local doctor 4 times in past two months...the 4th time they said they found a spot on his lungs, and he needed to come back and have it checked. He went yesterday to have it checked, and I am sure they will find it has gotten worse. Anyhow, he was at the ER twice today with breathing problems and high blood pressure. I had told him two years ago that if he keeps going to the doctor, they will find something. What we choose to think about always becomes more intense. If it is disease we think of, we get disease. He is all to pieces and I can't say I care, since this man watched me stop taking heart meds that they claimed kept me alive, and that was two years ago. He uses the local Catholic charity constantly to get free food, and then ends up at a Catholic hospital, sick. We manufacture sickness and wellness within ourselves. No faith needed...just belief. Our biology is what we believe it is. We are the only animal who can supposedly die of millions of different diseases. Think.

You know it's near the end when the pope atones for abuse of children, by Catholics. They're all about deceit. And wouldn't the idea of what atonement is be defined by the abused? I wonder if they have to kiss his ring. Then he slips them some disease, so they can go to the hospital...which are all ran by Catholics. You can't make this **** up.

The holy cardinal said:
who bare rib?
fresh cut new did,
he said -- who is this?
He slowly tread; wrangled thee
there's a 4x4 in his 20/20,
he asked -- “double play?”
the kid ran away

sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.

chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.

as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.

(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)

who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.

sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."

O Mother of He who is Love Himself
I run to your golden abode. Seek for me the grace
to be like you.
To love like you,
to serve like you
to obey like you.
May my mind be Heaven bound,
Seeking the good with my hands
Speaking the truth with love
Sharing my warmth and your light.
Take from me the darkness,
the weight that weighs me down
making my eyes heavy and teary.
Fill me with your light, that I may never falter,
on my path, to share the love.

No greater love than that of the Man who died on a cross, who even after agony and suffering, being crowned with thorns and mocked, with all of His last breath, believed I was worth it all.

Everything for the man who died on a cross, who even in his last hour, believed I was worth it all.

This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant
Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...

Do this in memory of Me.

In memory of the spooky parochial school halls
In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient
In memory of the over-simplicity of rules
In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy
In memory of crushing inadequacy

Do this, in memory of me, the child.

In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit
Whose body developed too early
Who had trouble making friends
Who didn't have enough discipline

Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that
So many tiny rules and expectations
to love, serve and obey

Black rosary beads
Holy prayers uttered to God
Penance for my sins