A Prayer Informed, #182

The pills, once digested
become, at first, buoys
in the acid belly,
hanging out with the steak
and fries, the bubbly coke
that bobs around down there.
First, they don’t do their work,
wrapped up in a cocoon
of tamper resistant
plastic to prevent some
nefarious creature
from causing harm. Acid
though, does its work, removes
the seal and lets seep
all the granulated
medicines. In that dust
lies years of cold hard facts
and countless test subjects
being absorbed into
the interstate of blood
inside my ailing form.
Chemistry starts to change.

The sacrament, once blessed
penetrates between the lips
and rests for a moment
on the tongue. Bows its head
and lowers its salty
surface onto its knees
before sliding a chute
down into the belly,
where it first uncovers
gluttony, a blatant
lack of abs and assumes
sloth, but can not locate
even the scent of pride.
As quickly as the touched
grains can dissolve and move
to the flabby edges,
single out the fastest
root to the pearly gates,
both the way and the light
to the flesh, they make way,
and lend a cleansing warmth
inside my ailing form.
Chemistry starts to change.

Saliva caresses
the roof of the palette
and unwrestles itself
from the immigrant tongue
that has crossed the border
to steal spit that could
go to Americans.
It hides in the shadow
of the cheeks, the shallow
pits of eyes that led to
groping this strange border
before knowing even
a name. The brain centers
are working overtime
to keep hormone levels
at peak interest, dumping
metric tons (a few drops)
of solution into
the unsuspecting blood.
Her body feels strange
inside my ailing form.
Chemistry starts to change.

The iced tea refreshes
as it passes the gums,
before even taking
its plunge, it’s discovered
the capillaries hid
in the mouth and the throat.
Its sugars dissolving
into a nothingness
existence, immersion
into blood and urine
barely before the gasp
of refreshment, the sigh
a parched and starved system
releases to taste it.
A month ago, growing
under florescent lights,
one of abundant leaves,
soon picked and pulverized.
An hour ago, dust
at room temperature,
then water, then ice. Gone.
Then out to sea at dawn.
Inside my ailing form
chemistry starts to change.

The pill, which cemented
power, has been in charge
for more than an hour,
which the body adores
for the diminished pain
but works to decimate,
return balance, go back
to its natural state.
Armies of enzymes leave
training to deploy
to the periphery.
The headache throbs again.
I could reach for the pill,
but the body’s a sharp
soldier and learns quickly
what ways to combat
invaders. So the plan
must adjust. It calls for
straight bourbon, a stranger
and a long dream sailing
inside. The chemistry
changes my ailing form.

The wafer is absent
now, but left a clean slate
in its wake. Forgiven,
I could live the balance
of my life in virtue,
dedicated to great
and divine purposes.
Instead, I will head out
beyond the vestibule,
the pass directly through
the doors of the diner
where a waitress I want
waits to pass me more food
than I should consume.
By the time I settle
my gratuity, salt
still hanging on my lips,
I should head back to church
and beg my dead father’s
forgiveness. Forgive me
for how often I sin
inside. The chemistry
changes my ailing form.

A kiss, and her consent
to roam my lips over
whatever proportion
of her body I see
fit. It’s nothing like what
Jesus tolerated.
He left for forty days,
told no one where he’d be,
wholly unreachable
both by phone and mail.
In the desert there was
no temptation. Lying
beside me in a form
needing a signature
only, for permission.
I give it, not because
it’s what I want, because
I am wanted. Her lips
are the ice to my hard
membrane. All night we ride.
Inside, the chemistry
changes my ailing form.

Iced tea, like the presence
of godlings, always there
and waiting, in the fridge
like a peaceful Buddhist.
I open you, pour you
into a glass, add cubes
to give you shape, substance,
something to masticate.
What is of the planet
is the planet, what lives
in your bosom, suckles
from your bosom. It’s me.
The dark sinner who comes
to confess, prodigal
progeny, the constant
disappointment. I can’t
help it. I love too much
the gifts of this body,
which is the whole body.
I will consume as much
as I can fit, until
I disappear, reformed.
Outside the deity
changes my ailing form.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s