Saturday, September 22, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
The Velvet Jesus After-Party The dog's name is Precious. He tried to bite me. I want to stick quarters between his cactus-spikey meth teeth, Shove them back into his smooshed face, Get a washer started, Wash his smell away. The baby's name is Mercedes, And they dress her in pageant clothes. Never mind the snot caked around her nose, Her Cheeto mouth, and brown baby teeth. The truck is bigger than the trailer. The license plate says: "My Toy," But it belongs to the bank, And they're coming to get it. The letter says so. The puppy-piss-soaked letter That no one in the house knows how to read. Velvet Jesus hangs on the wall...powerless. They know not what they do. He can only watch: The Mister and Missus in a fry-pan fight. The Missus goes to sleep with the neighbor. They pop commandments like bubble wrap. Velvet Jesus knows that: They all drink until 2 a.m. on Sunday morning, Just hours before sliding into the booth at his house, With their blood-shot eyes, With liquor on their breath, Because Mawmaw won't cook dinner Unless they attend the salvation after-party. Last call! Alter call! Communion wine.