Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

the jesuit francis

pope francis
stood before the calabrese
stricken with grief
for the death
of a 3-year-old lamb
shot and burned along side his grandfather
by the black hand
over cocaine

he wept for the child
he wept for italy

in the middle of his mass he broke
from the liturgy
and spoke directly to the mafia
declaring they
represent an adoration of evil
and contempt for the common good

palm raised toward heaven
he declared those involved
no longer had the ear of god
they are excommunicated

he then visited the sick in a local hospice
and as he left
humbly asked
to have a splinter removed

the world media outlets
clamoring for ratings
immediately began speculating
as to the personal and physical danger
the pontiff may now be in
facing possible retaliation
the wrath of mafia capo regime

now i’m sitting there
and i laugh
thinking if he was a tarantino character
he’d be jules in pulp fiction

i picture his papal wallet

what a bad ass
the jesuit francis is

he is a true priest
a fierce advocate for his congregation
a representative of divinity

he says things the underlings don’t like
about poverty, sexuality, and corruption
and the official spin doctors of god
shit themselves running

the news outlets ignore the more fundamental story

as soon as he was elected to the papacy
he vowed to reform the scandalous vatican bank
the ironically named
institute for religious works

promising to stamp out the fires
of corruption
heads began to roll

this is where his holiness
faces the true threat

there are gangsters
far more evil than la cosa nostra
amidst the church’s ranks

if anyone is going to put a hit on
the holy father

should he be poisoned
fall down the stairs
or die suddenly in the night

it will come from men wearing red vestments
whispering conspiracies
during vespers

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

confessing to the vicar of god

what a task
you’ve burdened me with

having to dance like i’m enjoying it
as you watch
masked through the glass

pretending i’m unaware you’re there

wigs, trench coats, switching booths every night
none of it’s working, baby

you’re nothing
if not a predictable animal

it’s your scent
and references
that betray you

i could spy with my little eye
and point you out from the blimp
hovering over a pirates game

i won’t look up

because in my dreams
i’m curled around you in the back seat
of a taxi cab
weeping for all we lost in the war
confessing to the vicar of god
it’s the sound of your voice
i’ve missed the most

i won’t smile at you

smiling is for pussies