The vatican light bulb

How long until they change it?

It's dim and dull and damning. 

How long for these men

these bishops, priests and archbishops-men

to change it? 

How long will the women, the LGBTQs 

(cha cha cha!)

and the altar boys have to wait?

Thick brown syrup dripping
tradition there, change 

moves slowly; watt else is new?

But how many centuries?

I guess whenever the Holy decides it needs to See.

Deconstructionism 

in the english department, 

part 2

The scholars were all sitting in a circle

evenly spaced, like traffic cones 

around some repair work; I came in

and sat down, below them, to the side. 

I was there to defend a friend. I said, 
"I've read all his books, they made me 
- they still make me - want to get out of bed 
in the morning!" 

One of the cones, probably the department head 

of repair, looked down and to the side, 

where I was, and smiled at my enthusiasm;

I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. 

So, I said some more: 

"He was always doing his best, and even if he wasn't,
always, he was doing it anyway!" 

The head of the circle said, 

“At a certain time in his life, his work 

becomes flawed, uneven.” 

Then, the meeting was over; 

they all left but the department head. 

I gave him a dirty look. 

I said, “How’d you like to be flawed and uneven?” 

Then, I left. But I was serious. 

I could hear him messing around with his smart

phone, it was gurgling and goo-gooing as I 

went out of the room; but I was serious. 

Later, the mortician told the police
(I read this on the free Wi-Fi internet
at the Red Roof Inn, after the free coffee)
that the department head looked a little deconstructed
when they brought him in. The mortician 
must have been an english major, on the side. 

As for me, I'm driving fast away from the police, 

and I've got a UHaul full of those books! 



Or maybe this is all imagination. 
Either way, I got out of bed this morning,
if flawed and uneven. I don't really want 
to kill anyone. Or, me.

DRINK the waterfront 

Riding along, someone else driving, 

I sat up and looked straight ahead 
through the windshield

instead of sideways and up, 

playing the alphabet game with the billboards 

and said, I AM a contender, even if somehow
I don’t contend. 

I got out of the backseat, out of the car

and looked it over - the car - and it was with me, 

on my side
it even threw a rod

(steiger; too depressed; inside himself).

I got up in the front seat

with the key

with the ignition

with the wheel

and then -- well, what would you do?

Right; that! Drive. Floor it. 

To hell with the pedestrian. 

No family around 
In a blizzard 

under buzzards

the horse fell

off the mountain trail;

falling down, eyes wide

not understanding why

he, who’d been barn born

in another snowy night

in warm yellow haystack candlelight.