The sky has never looked
so cheap before — — telephone lines
hanging
like the snagged threads
of your lover’s shirt.
Moon the shape of a fingernail pinch
& stars that glitter in discount;
no wonder we can look at it;
no wonder every lover can claim the stars
as yours, they exist
for nursery rhymes and wishes
decayed & to be celestial
is but a ticket
turned to you if you can clasp your hands
& make yourself vulnerable to every possible
bullet your way. Bang!
We can hear the airplanes.
it sounds like the sky
grunting, it sounds like we’re hungry.
Fetch me the crystal candies in the sky, love.
Grab the moon when it turns into cookie.
The night is an ocean of grape juice.
This is the cheapest we can get.
spit crusts on the roofs of my mouth
like cum, tongue
barby-barred to roll confessions,
the syllables locked
so silence blooms a lower
language, like light leaks
like lesions, lessons limned
from locker rooms, like
livers licked to lasting,
loopholes lucky and lymphnodes loopy
like lip-larks, and labradoodles,
like love lumbered looking, limping.
I have come
to tell you that the ducks have claimed
the baptismal room
nuns in knee skirts
and their coarse prayers:
blessed are the pornstars
blessed is the mother
whose belly is discolored
and swells with a storm.
The body of Christ must have
a chocolate filling
there are kids here, Father.
The blood of Christ is reserved
for 11 pm,
there are homophobic titos here, Father.
A boy asks the congregation for holy water
there are no
toilet papers.
Devotees drop twenty pesos
into the emptied ballsacks
of sakristans. Prostate clinks.
The purchased wish
for the cross to swirl
it is hell in here. Turn the crucifix to fan
spin Jesus, spin!
