its amazing what we’re capable of when pressed;
lunar launches
and shaman healing
hail marys
and fortunes of gold
heavy hauls
and broken borders
war, compassion
and treaties of peace

all those wild and lofty regressions from the mean;
soul re-settings
(from deadly deeds)
scores and scriptures
liberty and peace
walls, asylums
(in the jaws of defeat!)
channeled spirits
of warmth
and love
and connection

and sometimes, it’s just a little fodder;
pyramids and viaducts
aqua-lines and chunnels
spider climbs
and deep dives
(with base jumps near the high wire)
gardens, and divine art
and even water boards
(for beauty is always in the eye of the beholder!)

have a look around...
and let gratitude be your guide

square-up marys,
It’s junior year, in the ivie,
we’re gambling for big-chips.
so gambate, do-it-big!
It's time, buck-up or labron.
if you bunny rouble
homeskillets will hook-it-up
lovems juju
.
.
slang…
girlogue = conversation between girls that guys can’t understand
square-up = get ready
marys = bookish and lovable girls of wit and looks
ivie = ivy league
big-chips = high stakes, high risk
gambate = Japanese word: 'Try your best!!'
do-it-big = take things to the next level
buck-up = rise to a challenge, to do something others are unable to
labron = fail miserably at the last second
bunny rouble = have trouble
homeskillets = friends
hook-it-up = help you out
lovems = sending you love
juju = good luck
.
.
(Get ready, you bookish and lovable girls of wit and looks,
it’s junior year, in the ivy league,
and we’re gambling for high stakes.
So try your best, take things to the next level!
It's time, to rise to a challenge and do something others are unable to
or fail miserably at the last second.
If you have trouble
your friends will help you out
I'm sending you love, good luck.)

Seek out the skeletons on every surface
Your no fun if you go to bed first
Those days were dark & merciless
You recited lies to my pretty face
I forgave you;
Lord knows we both sin
My fortune predicts I won't win
Cause you're already tasting that drip;
And you crave the bitterness

You can't cure him with charisma
And your love won't liberate him
So say your prayers till your voice is strained
100 Hail Marys won't alter this game

-Kellie A. Scranton

It was a
****** mary morning,
with a Van Gogh sky.
I woke up early, and
found a bar that did the  
same.
My kind of place
dark
and empty.
I began ordering ****** marys,
one after another.

At noon I paid
my bill and
caught the bus downtown.
I had to be at the  
courthouse at one for a
probation violation hearing.
I met my lawyer in the  
hall.
He said,
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You’re drunk,” he shouted.
“I’m fine,”  I said.
I followed him into the
courtroom.
We sat down across the
table from the
prosecutor.
As soon as we sat
down,
he said,
“Come with me.”
I got up and followed
him into the
judges chambers.
He handed me a small
machine with a
tube attached,
and said,
“Blow in this.”
I did.

He said, "This must be your  
lucky day.
It’s broken.
Do you want a
week in jail or
a month more
probation?”

I’ll take the longer
probation, I said
I had nothing but
time, and a small
amount of cash.
I walked out of
the court house.
Everything
looked ******.

What could be worse
Than a garden
Full of gnomes and trolls?
Is it:
Lawn jockeys and yardells;
Chuck adjusting his carb every Sunday afternoon;
Bathtub ****** Marys beseaching us to love;
Metal flowers on outside garage walls;
Fish ponds with gills in the filter;
Red gravel flowerbeds with little white fences;
Cosmetic door knockers;
Swimming pools without diving boards;
Mirrors on fences;
Burning ******* in fire pits;
Backyard landfills;
Icicle lights;
Weedy neighbours and an east wind;
The screech of tires;
The thump of metal;
The sound of screaming;
The absence?

Yeah. Plenty could be worse.

I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth -  Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in ***, gin and ugh…pheromones.

“fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?”

“fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.”

“fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” I cry,

We see his previously shock beet red face light up.

“Wit MEN fadder wit men.  Not little boys”

Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and *** and ****** and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever.

“fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.”

“fadder I was in a ****” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church *****. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, ****** drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber.

“fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.”

Rolling around on the confession booth floor now,

“fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to **** myself”

Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut.

“fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing”

By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe.

“So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other ******* week some ******’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie ****?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over.

The priest is mute silent on the subject at first, finally looking up from a leather bound book, he starts to speak in careful, measured words unfamiliar to the impatience of our generation.

“My son, I’ve never ****** any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.”

This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews.  A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. (Say it like a valley girl honey.)

Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.”

Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.”

“Generationally? Is that even a word?!”

“Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me

“Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a *** and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.”

The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The ****** of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.”

Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates  and being alone and not changing.”

After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot.

“Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink ******’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on

“STOP! You had me at BED” Sil yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into my front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times.

“I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.

Meaningless *** Poem
5/4/2014

Set your gaze upon the man across the bar.
Watch him as he casually drinks a beer and laughs with his friends.
Gossiping about past drunken nights' ends.
Ends that were met with a warm welcome's comfort.
Ends that involved taking a woman to bed without much effort.

How many do you think that man slept with in high school?
A mindless **** count as if they were tools,
willing to be wielded and fooled.
willing to be picked up and ******,
in the back of his ****** '04 pickup truck.

Maybe he's had at least one meaningless ***** with that **** of his.
So tell me this.
Please, why is the *** I have meaningful to him?
If his *** is shallow, then why does mine fill his hatred to the brim?

What's worse is the way he claims to 'know.'
The signs I give off that are guaranteed to show.

1. I wear tight underwear.
2. Their color scheme has a brightly colored flare.
3. I sit with my legs crossed in a chair.
4. That tells him I want it down there.
3. I get up and walk to the bathroom with a sway,
2. No straight man would dare do that.
1. ****** Marys and Long Islands are dead give-a-ways,
0. I held hands with a man walking into the bar.

But the same as him,
I could take someone home and forget their name.
I could gloat about it to friends the next night out for two minutes' fame.
I could go on with what to him could be an ordinary day.
But because it's me, it's more meaningful to him.
Because I am gay.

Let's have a toast for the ******* as Kanye once said.
Let's have a toast for homophobes who take women meaninglessly to bed.
meanwhile my meaningless *** only finds meaning in their heads.

These trips by the county boys,
Being further deputized as burly, armed elves
Tended toward the grim,
Taking them on roads way up in the hills
Where pavement was the stuff of fantasy
And the home-sweet-homes
Were ancient pock-mark and rusted single-wides
Or jerry-built additions uneasily affixed
To some abandoned hunting camp or outbuilding,
Third-hand rugs or tarps covering
Hard ground, possibly augmented with a sprinkle of sawdust,
And you learned not to do more than exchange hellos
With the parents (this just one more minor indignity,
One more for-today-only handout,
The toxic mixture of resentment and self-recrimination
Never far from the surface) and head for the kids
As quickly as politeness allowed, the smiles
(Sometimes positively beatific, others suitably wan,
Knowing that tomorrow would be another day
In a series of just another days)
And upon leaving one such place, a couple of the boys
Heard an incongruous tinkling, this place
Far enough from town and insulated by bluff and pine woods
Where it couldn't be from St, Mary's or Faith Baptist,
And turning the corner toward where they were parked,
They happened upon a black bear,
Improbably wakened and wandered from some nearby cave,
Toying with some improvised wind chime,
Comprised of old graters, 50s-issue percolator stems,
Silverware liberated from some Denny's or school cafeteria,
And as they backed away to seek
Some alternate path to their vehicle, the younger of the pair opined
Must be some angel getting his wings, hey?
To which his partner, who knew these hills
And their sundry denizens all too well replied
You get that bears attention,
You're mebbe gonna find yourself on the waiting list.

Quick sweep of the steeple's steep
staircase winding
forever reminding
of a chasm in the maze and the mess;
A House of Mirrors.
A ***** trail, left to confess.

Three hail marys and a change of tack;
A quick sin shower
gets the devil off the back.
Perpetually pious of the priest
to keep the gun beneath the sheets.
Christ is hanging on the walls
a quick look up
the burden falls.

Shattered into tiny pieces
peace re-pieced upon the altar,
by Holy ghost and ****** Mary
Be this not the day he falter.

When I was a teenager
(like Dave Allen must have been)
I was at confessional
and the priest asked me what my sin was

" I have been in bed, Father
with a woman
of loose morals," I said
and refused to give a name

He sighed and he said:
"Was it Anna Berley?"
I said I couldn't tell
"Was it Sue Saxton?"  he persisted
I insisted I was sworn not to tell
"Nora Muxton?"  he asked again
I remained silent
And he dismissed me then with
5 Our Fathers and  5 Hail Marys


My mate Sam was outside
and he asked what I got
and I said to him:
*"5 Our Fathers and  5 Hail Marys -
and 3 good leads is what I got"

They tried to bury Yahushua Alef Tav

behind a nice Platonic, less Jewish facade
Renamed Him Jesus the Alpha Omega
and chanted many HEP HEP Hoorahs

... beside His feminist-friendly god/mother
to the tune of many hail Marys
even freed Him from His own Torah
despite "think not I came to replace it"

But see, He's risen now
from every holy papal place
from every charismatic falsity
that preached pew-warming prosperity

He's restoring Israel
not gentiledom...
one lost sheep at a time
back into twelve chaste tribes
just as she was under Sinai's hupa
before the separation

He's elbowing aside modern pharisees
who refuse to know Moses
and therefore can't know Him
or follow His commandments

who really aren't into feeding lost sheep
Egyptians hate sheep
It reminds them of plagues
Leaven goes better with bacon

Helen thought she’d have some fun
On this very special day
Slipped into her hiking boots
Trundled out to play
Along the way she met JP
Preaching to some dog (the four legged variety … lol)
Told him her intentions
Notes were duly logged
The plan
It seems
Was to escape
From the confines of the net
JP was now surveillance
He would eradicate the threat
Trapped inside
For years and years
So desperate to be free
Played a canny game
When they used the
“I’m mad … Insanity Plea!”
As they waited for the verdict
Raitch fed them Choccy Cake
Richard sat there laughing
“Guys this IS a big mistake”
“What do you think is out there
Do you think these folk are real
They do not care about you
There only in it for the thrill”
Raitch had heard enough
Punched him in the face
Told in no uncertain words
“The net is NOT your place”
Richard scuttled off
With his tail between his legs
Bumped into John Patrick
They then took up selling pegs!
Helen’s palms were sweaty
She could almost taste the breeze
She said her five hail marys
No longer would she tease
JP …  he sat all serene
Madder than Mad old Jack McMad
He had two pencils up his nose
Underpants positioned on his head
It was a funny sight
As I’m sure you folk can see
This is more than often the case
With your internet family
Hours passed like days
Then there came the loudest knock
Eliot breezed into the room
Silenced all into a shock
He said
“Hey guys
You can’t go out
I need to keep you here
For I am very lonely
See … my melancholy tears
I was abandoned at birth by my mother
Who ran off with a horse
Father couldn’t look at me
So … filed for divorce
As I wondered in the wilderness
Lost and all alone
I started writing poetry
I started building thrones
The biggest one
Was just for me
To sit and rule this land
I acquired all my subjects
The outside world was banned
So … please guys
Play the game
Accept the world in which we live
Please stay with me
Please play with me
And all that I can give”
Well … it pulled up all the motley crew
Who tried to escape from this regime
It made them all sit down and think
“He’s right
We are a team”
Helen wiped away a tear
Accepting of her fate
Realised now
The time was wrong
To circumnavigate
Maybe in the future
When she’s old and grey
She will have the courage
To rebel and not obey
But at the moment
Eliot needs her
Trapped inside the net
And that
My friend
Is where she’ll stay
It’s called a dead cert bet !!!

HAPPY  BIRTHDAY  TO  MY  LITTLE  FRIEND  FROM  DOWN  UNDER -

In the bar where sad things grow,
           Where(s) Happiness(?),
is pumped in Like champagne through IV.
I-found-us-strung-together-again-
          “ Now
I’m the type of person
                                 to-
                         fall-
**** near in love with gratitude. ”
“ Like that glancing smile,
Hidden behind a mask of bourbon and-
all ten hail marys you replaced
                 with ****** ones. ”
“ And if gratitude gets you this far?
Just imagine what the *** is like. ”

Take a long look at the road
you walked past and wonder of
how many stops you made
and how many you had to take.

(Was the meter still running
when you had me waiting outside
your house waiting
for it to become a home you
would have never built with me?
But become a visitor in a gallery
of art I could never understand.)

Live each day like a sombre white
and watch over your thoughts
as if you had a limit to how much
you could hurt yourself
because there is only so long
the Father could hear and only so many hail Marys that can keep you

sinless as the day you were born.

Plant a tree for every heart you broke
and watch someone else carve their stories
in you.

transcending
this cocoon of flesh
all the trappings of walkway icons
gilded
like the ****** Marys of Constantinople
without the divinity of virtue
where is zen
in this jungle
of glass and steel
time in a bottle leaking out
with a faulty seal.
when will the turn of the wheel
bring happiness
instead of the wet blanket
of sorrow
following a path
down by the River of Tears
watching the Lily Maid drift by
wondering
where is my dress and veil
in the cards of the gypsy
will I ever reach
Shangra La

Overdose of stimuli
Parade of light in the sky
Music falls, silence
The mer-men raise their tridents
     -in the air
Selene wailed, in her cot
     -the velvet bare
The diamonds flown and caught.
Drop your miniature bombs
On Marys and Toms.
Like school-boys, pulling your school-girls' hair.
Flirt with death, dance a desperate dare.
Douse Hell-fire in hemlock wine.
You're blind with *****'s ditsy shine.
Wake and sadly find, the stars -still 'live.

The clean and pristine
It sickens me.
Let’s get it on
Between back seats
And buried dreams
Where God cannot see

Forgive me father for I have sinned
This Sunday Morn,
A Repenter’s Device
To save his life
For the coming of Christ,
Reborn

Seven Hell Marys
And all is forgiven,
Wear this halo
Around the arm
With lethal injection

The clean and pristine
It sickens me.
Let’s get it on
Between back seats
And buried dreams
Where God cannot see

with good guns
and ****** marys
in a slow-spinning vestibule
with chairs made of wicker
and wood,
and accidental great whites
smiling from the ceiling.
music slips in from her viola.
we wish we were in a class
of language
by Fridays and last night's
setting fire to station wagons,
knowing not how to prevail.
from our seperate young boats,
one last sip,
we watch the sunrise
and we let life be the same,
equal distance between our names.
the afternoon ends with abnormal thunder
walking overhead like dead neighbors.
on the ground we walk their way, too.
so this is Rhode Island?
then music slips in.

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

then from the grimy floor
of the lavender fields' portaloo swells
an endless summer, and it creeps
up the blood orange walls;
each time i take a breath,
the plastic warbles like an underwater thing
we make little whooshes together  
it swells up and leaks out yellow

like i fear the girl's head will,
across the road,
all shaved and shiny like a soft boiled egg
fit to crack if the wrong car swerves
the wrong way...
anyway,
cancer?
at such a young age?

or the bees outside
springing up cushions,
decorative soaps, honey,
chocolate even out there from the earth
and i can't kick back and laugh
at how much they must be worth
because my god-

i'm scared of bees-

especially with the lavender
mingling with the sweat
in the soft part behind my knees
because what if they chose to stick there
and build empires from my flesh instead?

i'd be like that little girl;
as good as

anyway
sometimes my thighs conduct
like they're made of brass
and there's hail marys in the dust
tiny earthquakes caused by trucks
the tip of an ice cream cone
that isn't soggy

that's good enough

i stayed a little longer
than the trickle did

I can’t remember the first time I did it-
Flashing silver in the place of blood-true red inside my mouth.
To me, that was the worst. There was
no moment I could drag myself to,
screaming crying cowardly, and make it better.
No rhyme nor reason for the
twist inside of me.

At night I prayed for some forgiveness,
but I stopped going to Mass before my Confirmation and even I knew there could be no
True deliverance without repentance⁠—
53 Hail Marys cannot do what crystal lemon AWESOME does to the pistons of my father’s pickup truck, not
when the engine is
Clutching to its grime
Clinging for synthetic, automated life to the decades worth of caked-on dirt and sludge that
Are what it knows.
Unwilling to be clean.

And so I do not step one foot in church,
Yet I cannot keep my eyes from my mother’s wooden carving of the Last Supper,
Wishing he would turn his eyes to me, as well,
Knowing that he won’t.
Gripping the tablecloth at family dinner,
Seeing my own hand as his, clutching his bag,
Iscariot, my brother, whom I know as though another self.

All sins are the same.
In my own way, I too betray the salt.

The lizards are out.
They crawl among us again,
Bringing about an end to a season.
Winter has passed.

A cold shiver now
Turns into an uncomfortable sweat.
Our armor becomes lesser.
Our days become longer.

The sun pierces our skin,
The cold no longer protects us.
People show more skin.
The time of temptation.

Christmas becomes St. Marys feast.
The fan replaces the christmas tree.
It is now not a time to gather,
But a time to go out in the sun.

Getting drunk by the beach,
Enjoying sweet waves on your feet.
Sand crawling on your hands.
A slight breeze in your hair.

Summer is here.
Winter is dead.
The heat prevails.
The cold descends.

You’re 17.
Sunday mass at Church.
Eyes bright. Heart open.
Sign of peace.
A meeting of warm hands across the pew.
Heart aflutter, eyes lowered.
You think, God brought us together.

Sundays are quickly
becoming your favourite day of the week.
Eyes meeting, cheeks blushing
In between the homily.
Weekly meetings turn into bi-weekly dates into marriage.

You’re 24.
You say, God I can’t do this anymore.
Eyes bitter. Hearts closed.
Night-shifts. Poker weekends. Empty houses.
Wordless, soulless, meaningless co-existence.
You think, God brought us together?
No amount of hail marys
Can save us.

That Saturday
Night shift at the Hospital.
Hand sneaking under scrubs.
A breakdown of marriage
Vows.
Heart pounding. Eyes open.
Your saviour.
God’s answer?

Some guys just want you for ***
And I can see that
But I really think that would be doing you an injustice
I want to know the real you
And who knows, maybe a relationship
Take it to a higher level
Who knows, we could be forever young
What do you think.

That’s quite good Paul,I mean, compared to last week's effort anyway.

Was last week’s bad.

Let me see now, you’re pulled.

Did that lack substance.

It was sort of to the point.

And that was bad.

Well I did mention it to you the next morning.

Was that in between you’re a crap lover.

You said you could do it all night.

I did do it all night, slept like a baby.

I know, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Did I or did I not show you a great time in the morning.

No, you said you had to get a run in.

I know, but after that, were you or were you not screaming.

Are you surprised, there was blood everywhere, thought somebody had attacked you. how was I to know you fell down a hill.

After that, did you not say it was out of this world.

I could have said anything, I was still traumatised.

I’m not surprised your husband doesn’t understand you. You staying at your sisters by the way.

No, she’s at mines.

Did you two read the marriage contract. I mean, I’m not religious or anything, but I think the Priest would be a little concerned about your infidelity.

Have you met father Tom.

Don’t think so.

You have, he was the guy giving you *** tips.

Was that him, he was brilliant, told me all the things that turned you on.

****** great, you get the advice, I get the Hail Marys.

Open your eyes, boy,
I think we are saved.
Took a walk over the bridge above troubled water
Got to the other side
Got to the other side.

Silent Hail Marys over and over again.
Counting beads.
Fingers running over them beads.
Muttering.
Muttering the same thing again.

Mother, I am weak, but I am strong.
I am no longer young;
I am an old man’s daughter.
Who understands less now than when she started.

He’s still walking up and down those streets
Doesn’t know what he’s doing that for.
I asked him why
He said it’s hard living with ghosts
In someone else’s tomorrow.

We are water
We are water
We are water.
I want life to
Give me
what the water gave me.

Take me down to the levy
Take me down to the stream.
I wanna be like old John and
Wash my sins away.
The choir of gospel singers
Moved me down
Down to the river.

Father can you forgive your son?
I’m a fallen apostle
Carrying the sins of Cain.
Take me down to the River Jordan
To take me away.
Gunna wade in the water.
Gunna come home again.
To the house of Gold
Under a dark, deep blue sea.