To Anyone
who’s ever gone down
in Babylon—
And knelt by those waters
as they wept.
Saint Peter’s knocking on my door
long after dark, a long way down,
at the bottom of a barrel,
damned, run out of his part of town,
at the foot of my well, hell on
his heels, asking if I’ll heal what
heaven can’t, that part of a man
my hands harden, that tower I
climb so well that no woman would,
and I’m so good, so good at what
I’m told I shouldn’t be, but am,
so good being better than them.
Ain’t it sweeter, better that way,
when another hand reaches down
to help you as you prey, pants ’round
hallowed ground as a stranger lays
his on your intention, Onan’s
sin inherited, no more time
to waste, racing thoughts pulsing their
impurity the great white way,
faces lit as this stage of life
takes itself so low to reach an
old height, its ancient violence
shaking blinding faith into place.
We don’t need her, no, she can’t come,
not to where our tongues go, useless
muses are like canned music, spoiled,
spoiling these occasions, not on
evenings such as these when those of
this persuasion should be preying,
and we’re already late, so let’s
throw off their chains as we lick it,
drowning prayer-bones deep in words our
haughty mouths spit, moisten your lips,
we’ll put them together then blow
like wind heaven down with great head.