New York, New York

Just as the sun rises in the east
the Yankees win the World Series.
I wonder what it’s like to root for perpetual winners,
to not have loss in your blood,
making it sticky when spilled.

It must be like rooting for God.
You follow that one long game, Good vs. Evil,
every night on the radio ‘til Jesus walks down
and calls the last strike.
Ol’ Lucifer gives him lip about the strike zone
but nobody listens.
You jump on that holy dogpile, your knee
in Mother Teresa’s back, and howl for joy.
On heaven’s loudspeakers Sinatra sings about
little town blues fading away
and your only wish is that you didn’t have to wear pinstripes.

Sympathy for the devil

In the fake marble tile by the toilet
the outline of the devil stands on top
a ragged staircase leading to hell.
Satan’s big-horned head is looking
up to heaven with that sappy longing
we’ve all slathered on our faces
at one time or another.
He wanted what we all want:
love on our terms.
But his Lover held the cards —
five aces, all spades —
and ol’ Lucifer had the one heart,
all shriveled with regret.
Now he’s taking the long walk to hell.
It’s all politics,
I tell him from my porcelain perch.
You have to count the votes,
know when to bring the bill to the floor.
Til then you keep your head down
and answer when called.
That’s love.
But Satan’s not listening.
He’s looking to heaven,
sees God talking to some jerk.
He burns God’s profile into his brain
then burns his feet walking down
that lonely stairway.

On monks and dynamite

I see myself as a monk eating an apple
in the doorway of a monastery overlooking
a garden, knowing my life wouldn’t get
any better or worse than that.
I’d consume God as my meals and
like any dish it would become tiresome
with such frequency,
so I’d resort to apples and gardens.
It’s cold in that monastery and the quirks
of the other monks would get to me,
the farting and lack of proper hygiene.
The vow of silence thing was always a farce
and what good can come of celibacy?
The monastic life is spiraling
to hell as I think of it.
I’d have to dynamite the place
and I’m not sure I’d alert
the other monks sleeping inside.
Better I stay away
and eat God as an occasional snack.