The Last Priest
smiled his blessings
indiscriminately
bridging
seeding
building
a new priesthood

beyond borders
across tribes
ignoring gender
discounting class
blind to race
snubbing rank
denying privilege

and preferring
a new holy nationality
for refugees
for stateless souls
like mine
- like ours

Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.

As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.

Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.

Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.

As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.

During mass on Sunday mornings
we would recite the Act of Contrition,
a prayer to request forgiveness of sins.
In humble voices, we asked for absolution
from God and from each other,
before the priest blessed the eucharist.
Most of our sins were encouraged in a world on fire,
but we owned up to them every week.
Hatred of our brothers and sisters,
the best drugs and the juiciest hookers,
these were our only escapes
from the bosses, the bills, the tax collectors.

Sin was how we stopped the perpetual slide
into total madness,
and the Act of Contrition,
that was how we kept our sins
from eating us alive.

A model of matters
make me fill my beak
with anecdotes to lark upon breast
that capper shall nigh
and spoon fulfilled parlance
take romance through angels
with their chants that elope
in shoes of Miko with tears of joy.

Ever curse in front of a priest?
It's awkward to say the least
especially when you let it slip
Jesus Christ, *******.

The alcoholic only turns to Jesus because He has wine in His veins
And I know a man that turned his back on rehabilitation
So to focus on reconciliation

And he did it well
But he winced when drinking His blood
The pain of redemption, perhaps
A hundred eyes on him with his vice on his tongue

It could have been his own blood in the chalice for all he gave
He will not let you be tried beyond what you are able to bear
They looked down on him up on that altar
And prayed for him to be forgiven

The spirits he confides in are not holy
And they stain his Jesus-white robes
He chose the hardest penance
On direct path to righteousness  

Not even a hundred hail Marys could fix this
Vinegar on a sponge looks tempting
Cleanse me from all my sin
You better make sure His diary is clear

They do not understand
That for him it carries no salvation
An inconvenience of eternal life
Is to suffer for the beginning