Now I lay me
down to sleep,
with scorn amoung us
running deep,
from teacher's pets
and network news,
living lies
we'd never choose.
So if I die
before I'm 'woke,'
I hope to see you
through the smoke.
Until then, Lord,
keep us whole,
body, mind,
immortal soul.
Lord, send us a priest,
or someone who
will speak the truth,
at least.
Free of doubt
but still without
an arrogant disdain
for the few
who never knew,
and those whose only focus
was their pain.
Lord, send us a priest,
a numbered saint
who'll march into the breach.
With a grace,
reminiscent of
some royal bride,
above the fray,
beyond the spit,
without a hint of weakness
in his stride.
Lord, send us a priest,
A candidate
whose palms
are still ungreased.
With the roar
of a million voices
choking back to life;
demanding more
than just a shrug
from all these deep-insiders
sowing strife.
Lord, send us a priest,
from the Vatican,
or maybe,
further east.
With the scars
acquired in
some foreign civil war;
whose fought these demons,
death, and hell;
whose walked these streets
before.
Lord, send us a priest,
an exorcist to stand
against the beast.
With the brass
to hold his calloused hand
above the flame.
Whose crucifix
and Creole tongue
will force the fallen one
to speak its name.
Lord, send us a priest,
A new messiah,
slightly less deceased.
His holy grail--
a paper cup,
full of Pepsi cola,
symbolic of
the older book--
acidic, dark, and colder.
Better yet, Lord,
send a storm
an avalanche
in female form.
Her ice-blue lips
whispering old prophecies of doom.
Her open legs
and bridal gown
compelling weaker men to be her groom.
Her 'something old,'
a cold bouquet,
consuming all her lovers as it blooms.
And in her wake
a long white train
that seals their final breath inside their tombs.
* * *
Lord, send me a priest,
it's been too long since I was
last at peace.
If not for pain,
I fear that maybe I would cease to be;
Its just that I
can't unconfuse
the things I know from all the things I see.
Amen.
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