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Satan’s Lives Of The Saints

Aquinas was a gluttonous fat man,
Constipated when he wasn’t farting like Vesuvius,
His breath stank and his arrogance made him utter,
“I am but a brain!”
When he was but a stomach.

Another Dominican, Dominic, himself,
Picked his nose like a child waist-high.
Odanistic to truly Olympian extremes,
He could never resist gazing on a boy
With a face like a girl’s.
I made it a point to send many of those
Across his path…

Jesus Christ! Yes, the Gallelian handyman himself!
Good old J.C., relation of mine,
Had a nervousness when it came to ingrown toenails.
No, it’s the truth, I swear to Go--,
(Well you get the idea.)
He’d fumble at his toes night and day,
Mess, mess, mess, it was trumping up to the Mount,
And he never could find a good pair of sandals!

Margaret Mary, dear batty thing!
A little too fond of Sacramental wine.
Hiccuped through half the Masses she attended,
Used to get cramps when she ate berries,
And would pee herself in fear whenever she saw a mouse.
During a particularly dull Lent,
I appeared to her as Saint Perpetua,
And had a discussion on the virtues of horsehair habits
Versus cloth of rough hemp.
Maggie once went fifteen years devoid the vanity of baths
And a stout change of underwear,
So is it any wonder her celebrated virginity
Was a fortress which never fell?

Petite Bernadette!
Had more fun with her than with the Maid of Orleans.
(Joan of Ark was to have been a beekeeper before I changed
     her career path.)
Though lacking Joannie’s colorful mood swings,
Bernadette’s crying jags were nothing to sneeze at:
I patented P.M.S., you know.
I dressed in drag—
All the best “queens” do The Virgin, as well as Marilyn
     and Liz—
And directed her to a dry spring
By a pasture filled with sheep dung.
I promised miracles,
Knowing the waters held amebic dysentery
Going back to Druidic Ages.
Come to Lourdes and be cured?
Ha! Go to Lourdes and get the runs!

I used to tease Francis Xavier.
Dear Fran, so serious! Oh my!
Had the Gift of Tongues, you know,
Could speak to anyone anywhere in any vernacular,
Even upon first contact with a culture clear across the world,
India, Japan, the Philippines, didn’t matter.
No denying that’s a miracle, eh?
(Here do atheists and Protestants fear to tread!)
It used to get him so depressed when I’d send imps on
     board ship
To hide the salve he’d put on his fever blisters.
Oh goodness, ever seen a holy man scurry frantically
In search of the one and only fix he really truly needed?
“Deo meo! Deo meo!” he’d whimper.
All that fasting did little for his health, understand,
His lips looked like a battlefield: eruptions, cankersores,
     cracks.
Why the poor fellow could hardly lisp his sacred Rosaries!

St. Theresa, the hypochondriac of Liseaux,
(Done-in by the first real illness that crossed her path!)
Didn’t tell all of the truth in her “Divine Garden” vision.
The Little Flower earnestly believed her sluttish cousin Maude,
A popular mademoiselle you’ve never heard of,
Was the ragweed in God’s garden,
And the convent handyman, Pierre, was a very large—ahem—
     cucumber.

And finally, Saint Michael the Archangel.
Well, well, well.
That Biblical comic book Revelation
Says he’ll kick my derriere
On the Last Day. Maybe. Maybe not.
A lot of prizefighters come my way,
And I’ve learned a thing or two
From sitting in the front row
At Kung-fu fests in Hong Kong.
But if it turns out he does get the best of poor little me,
Do me a favor and remember this:
Under those wings
Those aren’t honest muscles.
No, you see, truth is, Mike,
Patron of dumb jocks everywhere,
Was the one who invented steroids!

And another from about the same time....

Katholikos

We hide our secret from no one,
But still you don’t grasp it, do you, outside that you are?
Forget the legends
Of nocturnal preference, long black capes and an allergy to sunlight,
We need no disguise,
We are everywhere among you,
And we wear our workaday identities well.
But concede my point, won’t you?
Aren’t we a coven of vampires
Who gather each Sunday in our cathedral,
And enact our liturgy right below your noses?
There is nothing natural in our rites.
Behold! On our altar a priest in black
Bisects a sacrificed body in his nimble fingers!
Behold! Now he sips blood from a chalice!
“A miracle!” we affirm among ourselves,
As he bargains for our souls
In the tongue of the Caesars’,
And no one who is not of us suspects a thing…
Ah, the beauty, the irony, to be concealed by our openness.
We, the candidates for life without end,
One-fifth of humanity,
Are der wampyres,
And we have been promised
That we shall rise from our graves
With our bellies full of the blood of a god,
And the paste of his flesh still lodged in our teeth
On a day which shall mark the end of time.
Kyrie eleison! Ave Maria! Amen!


(I swear, if I hadn't been one of the students they showed off to brag about, I'm sure they'd have kicked me out.)

But then again maybe I understood things better than I thought I did, as evidenced by....

How Frail And Fleeting

How frail and fleeting
Is high school fame,
At best its value
To the in-crowd
Stretches out into the summer
After the mortarboards
Are removed from neatly-groomed hair,
And the diplomas are placed
In sweating hands,
And “Good Luck!”
Is chimed three-hundred-ten times over
By some semi-distinguished visitor,
Who stands and longs for a drink.

The Prom Princess,
Such a mighty fish
In the tiny pond,
Goes to work at a slacks store
At the interstate-ramp mall,
Plots marriage to Mr. Right,
Contemplates whether pregnancy
Might help ensnare him,
Once he is found,
Worries about those few extra pounds
To her figure,
Resents the nerd from fifth period
Becoming one of the big shots
In mall management.
What a b***h to have one’s life
Peak at seventeen.

The first-string varsity quarterback
Works for thirty-percent above
Minimum wage
At the gym on Gold Street.
He pumps his iron,
Cracks jokes to his co-workers,
The ex-jocks from other schools,
Who at times almost pause to collectively wonder
Where their sycophants went,
As they relate tales of last-minute touchdowns,
Of cheerleaders climbed,
Of classroom antics,
Of scholastic outcasts humiliated.
Ah, the glory days…the glory days…
Where did they go?

The deviant, the hood, the rebel,
He fares little better.
He who was once the baddest of the bad
At Ctlxapaqr High,
Enjoys no reputation by July after graduating
With C’s and D’s.
Perhaps he’ll be gas jockey,
Or maybe his cousin
Will come through on that factory job,
But, hey, remember how they all
Used to step aside when he trod down the hall?
He’ll relive that
Ten-thousand times in years ahead,
As his beer-gut prospers.
But what a clown he used to be,
Giving the teachers hell!

Maybe we should have
An old-timer’s day
For former high school somebodies.
Maybe we should set up parades,
So we could lift our children to our shoulders
And say:
“See? See that fat janitor over there?
In ’72 he used to be
The makeout artist of the junior class!”

But Then Again....

Communion—After The Shadows Descend

I dread the sunlight, I dread the morning,
I dread the dark-night, yet heed its warning,
I dread the storms within my battered soul,
I dread that ending which seems life’s lone goal.

But in all this dread, some comfort I’ve found,
That throughout time all others were bound
By that same state which sires my dread:
The fate of the living to join with the dead.

I'm no mean wordsmith but your talent at verse leaves me breathless!

I've said it before and I'll say it again-your a dam fine writer.  :thumbup:

You were in high school in '96?
I was in high school in '76!
Dam! I thought you were old like me!  :buggedout:

Indy, RC, thank you both for the kind compliments. They mean a lot to me

LOL Nah, my mom didn't even get out of school until 1977.