Toccata and Fugue in D Minor
THE PRIEST
Check out
those priestly hues: cardinal
red spotted
with Irish stew, or flaked with parmesan
cheese, all
depending on whether we’re in Dublin or Naples,
or dandruff
on Jesuit black, or mullah white rising
up in a
desert wind, and a lovely Buddhist saffron
plastered
down and wet in a monsoon deluge. He could be on his way
to hear the
sins of his flock, or cast out demons
in an
Appalacian barn, or nod chanting over
disembodied
foreskins in Brooklyn.
He might be
barefoot(a literalist of the soulful arts),
wear
boatshoes or Birkenstocks, Gucci
loafers
possibly, or in Palastine plastic sandals,
or maybe
the sort of embroidered slippers
stuck on
the end of a saint’s bones. He might live
in Kyoto
where he, in season, contemplates cherry trees,
or in
Calcutta where he’s breathing in the fumes
of a
burning corpse, or blessing a suicide
bomber in
Beirut, or lunching on a plate of pasta
in the
Vatican, and about to bring to the confession booth
a whiff of
garlic and Frascati Classico, or he’s that man
on his
knees in Cleveland begging for forgiveness.
Biniaraix |
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