My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown *****,
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.

     Even Jesus knew the angles
     To be a carpenter and Savior,

Grace and Faith kept time.

The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?

     All things are possible with God.

You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.

I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.

I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.

Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.

The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.

Sitting in a pew,
Thinking of my nightmares of you.
Kneeling to pray,
But no God will save me today.

I sit in the confessional,
But what can I confess to these halls?
Bloodied traces and
Tear stained faces,

I was thirteen when I threw up blood for the first time,
And I was turning nineteen the last time,
And humans are filled with bad intentions,
We sin in order to ignore all that our hearts mention,

Like you're only doing this for the thrill,
Or who would it ****?
You.
It destroys you.

We make excuses
To validate our uses,
Of people or words or things,
And this judgment is all that I can bring.

I'll let you in on a secret,
Let's hope you can keep it.
I never feel better after confession,
Maybe I'm too guilty for my good intentions.

The soles of my sandaled feet
maneuver lumps of brick as if by rote
and I am compelled to face the square.

Almost noon on Sunday,
I seek the impromptu mall
of Tarot readers and caricaturists
where palmists merchant to St. Peter,
each an homilist to the choir of steel drums
tinkling near the alley.
Alternate drummers motion bills and coins
into the walled cache of a tattered suitcase.

Tall arched doors spill into
the welcoming flicker and scent of melting wax
as an older woman enters,
the heft of her rosary bending her
near genuflection.

Familiar passages resonate;
memories lead to Sacraments.
Questions filter through me like confessions,
and I note what lingers of my faith.

Still.

I feel too guilty for Communion.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Even as I turn to You,
my right toe numbs
and my ear begins to itch.
My ******* constrict
and my throat presses into the wet.
Inject me, Father, with Noah's syringe –
the one that jazzed him
to build that floating zoo –
that I may track my path before the Rise.
Or, let me don Your priestly robes,
and turn some wine to Corpuscles
divined to see beyond my own plank
or preach the Beatitudes to yawning zealots.

Is there a mirror on that altar?

As the cathedral entrance closes,
I am who I am
—and I am not worthy—
standing my shadow's length
from the shallow steps.

Azaleas blooming at my back,
I remember when religion grew within my mind
fed weekly by carvings on a chalice
in a chapel on Esplanade left to nature post Katrina.

Spanish moss greys the white beard of God
where the dome of the fresco fractures.

Phalangeal hues of sun
eclipse the floating dust
from breaks in stained glass stations.

Masses of blackberry and kudzu
drape a pregnant mass
over the sculpted marble of the cross.

The chiseled palms of Christ extend as
ropes of growth unravel from His Torso

like a figment of my reconciliation.

Vines fall to form a brambled crown
atop a broken stone
between the great doors
where the Bible swells open.

A version of this poem has been previously published in the anthology Louisiana Inklings: A Literary Sampler (29 October 2013).

*"Sanctuary" was featured as Poem of the Day and  added to the Poetry Club on Scriggler.com

Lots of people say that
Frankenstein's monster, Adam,
Wasn't that bad.
He wasn't that evil.
He was just lonely
And misunderstood.

But does anyone cry for
Dracula?
Did anyone try to understand that he got turned into a monster,
And spent 200 or so years all by himself,
Slowly being driven mad
From loneliness and heartbreak?

And that he only did what he did,
Because it was the only way he knew how
To make the loneliness stop?
It was a last resort,
He wasn't trying to do anything wrong.
His intentions, though selfish,
Weren't bad.

And does anyone ever pray for Lucifer?
For the one sinner who needed it most?
Maybe if someone would reach out a hand,
Some forgiveness,
And some mercy,
It wouldn't be so bad.
We wouldn't have so much evil,
Because he'd rethink his ways,
After being given the chance
To once more be in a state of grace.

But no.
We can't,
Because we're told
They're evil,
They're wrong,
And they don't deserve
Forgiveness or mercy.

I would like to think
That even the worst
Kinds of people
Can change and be forgiven.
I might be wrong,
But I have a forgiving heart.
So let me forgive those
Who need it.

(You have a confessing heart,
So let me hear what you have to say,
And I promise I will take all that pain,
All that guilt away.)

But if God is all forgiving,
And all powerful,
Shouldn't he be able to forgive
His angel who needs it the most?

"From the tip of my tongue a New World, in the palm of my hand it sits,"

"...and the fruits are found in my pocket, as I consume ever-more of it!"

"I am the conservative Republican; I am the progressive Liber-al,"

"For I am both sides of his will -man’s mind the master of it all!"