[180]

There are No Patron Saints

for girls like me.
for dive-bombing off the falls
and falling off the dive-bombs.

for tomorrow’s hung-over wake up.
for moon landings and mars rovers.

for losing one’s contacts in the rug.
for being down on one’s knees
saying don’t move don’t move.

for lightning-strike love.
for candied kisses and that sweet
sweet sweet moment when she
touches you with her tongue
the first time.

for the year 2012.
for the year that comes after.
for the end of the world.

against rain falling sideways
up your skirt. for wind blowing
downways up your shirt. for the way
you trip on the curb and open your knee.

there are no patron saints
for blondes. for the ones who think
math is hard. for pushing up your
glasses again and again.

no saints for hips and thighs.
for the hoods of queens
and the crowns of assassins.
for the shine of the blade.
for the well of the cut.
for the death of the father.
or mother. or stranger who
smiles at you on the street.

there are patron saints
against solitary death
against brigands
against jealousy miscarriages and moles.
for carvers and coffin makers
and chemical manufacturers.
for wolves and married women
and victims of betrayal.

even photography was saintless
until
Veronica appeared
to wipe the brow of Jesus.

there is a patron saint
of lost causes, of things
almost despaired of.
but there is no one
for lost girls, down on
our knees in the dirt,
having fallen
to the earth
in despair.

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image is of me, because I forgot to take a photo of something more interesting.
Words written while staring out a wall of windows.
Ears On beach volleyball.
Time Taken four minutes.
Brain On GenCon, travel, gaming, websites, work.

  

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This entry was published on August 8, 2012 at 4:10 pm and is filed under August, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

3 thoughts on “[180]

  1. “‘no saints for hips and thighs”?

    How about more earthly worshippers of same?

  2. Four minutes? Damn, you’re good!

  3. Sometimes I just get lucky. Or I have a patron saint of poems 🙂

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