The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...scream at the Horse for nary the fun.

What have you seen? What do you believe?
Did you get burnt on St. John's Eve?

Which day is it? Oh what the time?
Who be the meaning of old fabled rhyme?

Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?

Shh, here she comes, break black -the night!
...washed away the horse with infernal delight!

One is left ******, burnt, torn, pieces broken,
..and Momma, please Pappa; one's life merely token.

The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...ritual of the fear, for New Age begun.

Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?

Telling me I have no other choices.
That this is the only choice I have.
That this choice must be done immediately.
You tell me I can die if I don’t choose the “right” choice.
You are only looking out for me.
As if what I have inside does not matter.
But I have an expiration date.
I will die, but there’s something good still.
There’s something good to see.
When I picture it your way.
Everything goes black.
There is nothing.
Only death.

I first saw John sitting in the third desk of the first row.
I sat in the second, my new jeans cracking,
No curling iron-on patches as of yet.
A pin from my baby blue shirt pricked my neck.
I stepped in red ball Jets, before the soles became flapping tongues,
And the insignia peeled from the ankles.
Our well-used, wooden desks had pull-out drawers for stuff,
And always in need of re-arranging.
We invited our Guardian Angels to sit there, on the wooden drawer.
John sat, with black-rimmed glasses, on his pull out,
Graciously giving up the well-worn seat for his angel.
I liked him already.
His specs fit my sight. I could see the alphabet above the blackboard.
My first friend. Not a brother or sister. Someone who heard me.
Someone I listened to.
He was the oldest of six.
Had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in Canada.
He had instinct. Knew my lacking, shared his relations.
We studied the Catechism, had Confessions, First Communion, altar duties, patrol boy corners, sports, jerks and girls.
We learned to smoke and drink, drive and thrive.
We were Best Men, fathers and grandfathers.
I am not eulogizing John,
But celebrating while alive.
If all goes well,
I'll die before losing him.
But then,
Why would I do that
To my life long friend.

It’s interesting:
you can spot a fallen-away Catholic
by the language they use-
once learned, it can’t be taken away.
Catholicism leaves an indelible mark
on the tongue,
a pattern in the script.
People jaded,
wounded,
even rejected by wayward sheep
and wolves in their skin
bear the same brilliance
the same cry for understanding.
The Shepherd didn’t meet their expectations,
or maybe they’ve abandoned all belief in His existence.
No matter the qualm,
they all bleat the same.
There’s no removing the brand of baptism,
the vocabulary of vocations.
Even if a wall has been built
between them and the Church,
they still write the creed of their Fathers on its bricks.

This is not a reprimand,
nor a criticism;
it is a hand outstretched
to all who broke away.
It is a voiced desire
to teach
and learn
by their side.
This life does not hold all the answers,
but we can pursue Knowledge Himself
and reach the peak together.

My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown *****,
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.

     Even Jesus knew the angles
     To be a carpenter and Savior,

Grace and Faith kept time.

The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?

     All things are possible with God.

You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.

I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.

I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.

Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.

The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.

Sitting in a pew,
Thinking of my nightmares of you.
Kneeling to pray,
But no God will save me today.

I sit in the confessional,
But what can I confess to these halls?
Bloodied traces and
Tear stained faces,

I was thirteen when I threw up blood for the first time,
And I was turning nineteen the last time,
And humans are filled with bad intentions,
We sin in order to ignore all that our hearts mention,

Like you're only doing this for the thrill,
Or who would it ****?
You.
It destroys you.

We make excuses
To validate our uses,
Of people or words or things,
And this judgment is all that I can bring.

I'll let you in on a secret,
Let's hope you can keep it.
I never feel better after confession,
Maybe I'm too guilty for my good intentions.