Poems | Photos | Journal | E-mail   oedipus was a momma's boy

in the end it's all a game of numbers and
i never was any good at math, even in jest
hey--what's eight inches long and drives women crazy?
wait. maybe
I should have been a blonde and shallow bitch
judging frogs and boys by their wallet or their dicks
(whichever impressed me most)
but instead i called on the holy ghost
there are a million reasons for me to
fold my hands together and pray

"forgive me father, but i think
i need to change my panties now"
faith, candles, and christ--the cures for what ails you
lord
on fire with the spirit hurts so much less than desire
but songs should never be sung in second person
unless you're barry manilow
so this one goes out to nobody
in the grand scheme of things,
underwear is disposable too
(like candles burned to smoky stumps
at the end of every pew)

if i could, for once
tell it straight, and not as a
sloppily rhymed monologue
force my thoughts together

and spout formulas for sonnets and stews that taste like chicken
they call for red wine instead of white
that's right
i might tell my daughters
"keep your legs together and blush

grow your hair down long for scaling towers"
for fairy tales are archetypes and
i believe in jung
in satan as an abstract
in dreams that send telegrams from
the collective unconscious

or maybe i don't
i just meant
that part of me likes the sound of signs that
match and complement
like tarot cards in an eliot poem
let's put our heads together and think this through

but none of this means anything
when you say my name and i,
well, i just want to
rub my thighs together and sigh

like the hookers on the sidewalk when
the prince goes riding by

copyright, C.M. Priest