Junky Priests (a poem)

We wallow in the cathedral, sell wisdom by the ounce.

Sleeping on a bed of soda cans and condoms,

next shot could be the last;

eyes closed, mouth foams, we melt into the hardwood floor.

Father, forgive me.

We came from the county;

grew up on farms, riding horses.

Sitting in the derelict pew; this used to be a spiritual haven.

Maybe it still is?

Father, forgive me.

We’re in the here and now, and now, we want a shot,

filling us like cheap unleaded,

let us lie here in our twisted peace.

Father, forgive us.


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