Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Convert or die

Conversion Story

One Elvis joke too many
but how could I deny
the urge
to palpate
his tender bruise
as Vegas neon in a blender.

White Line Fever
in a spreading stain
upon a line dry king
size sheet hung
before a virgin forest
of painted pipe rooting
The Gratiot Drive-In
habitat for a priesthood of tethered owls
from open windows
tinny strangled hoots
lifting as one
raptured up
into a summer night

made flesh
in sacrament
warm Stroths and oily popcorn
willing intemperate tongues
to blasphemy.

The King
upon a pearly throne
holy raiment shed and puddled
bearing down with regal bearing
crying out
for vengeance
for crying out loud
His servant
spill blood
in Mine name

swift vengeance wrought
from the back seat
upon the knobby throat
of a mouthy innocent
gone contrite
atonement balanced
on the thin edge
of a six inch blade

my conversion
bathed in the blinding light
of the second reel. 

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