Of Martinis and Madcap Religion
-- after Last Martini, artist Michael Godard
An olive, a pretzel, and a handful of garnishes
walked out of a bar and into a local church. The stained
glass mistook the pimento pit for a stigmata,
shattered instantly. The others
gathered the pieces, built an arc
over the hot tub, decided to stew in their own liquid
sin until the sun came up, or God decided to peel
their skins off.
You keep me, like a jewel, in a box,
lucky, priceless, but full
of deathly curse.
If you touch me, I win.
If you sell me, you lose.
So you choose to bury me
between your bed and the floor.
My Mother Should Have Named Me Catastrophic
Despair is my favorite color.
I tie it like a bow in my hair.
My smile is a noose. I do not try
to disguise. Touch
me three times, and I will find
a million ways to make you
reign from terror strings dripping
nightmare shades of fried. Velocity
stutters its own
is a precedent. Dance dissolves
revolves around the center cell. Just
don’t call yourself.
Fly . . .