Reducing Debt

"What’s the matter with me,”
cries Bob, my friend
from Bayonne; Thirty years
in the enemy camp, aggressiv
acolyte, panicky proselytizer,
I pounded the narthex’s oak,
carried crosses
that advanced itchy reverends
and androgynous choristers.
After services,
pocket pool
and the slow grind
of putting red hymnals back.
These last days at the Temple,
cocktails become scarce
and immobilized faces
mark the low ridge
of separation: devout or recalcitrant?
I prefer
Episcopalian boob jobs
to Judaic Botoxing--call me
superficial. But I think
everyone would agree
that the Virgin Mary
could use some help
every now and then,
veering away from us
in that sharp, shocked ray of light.
I was on
The Ten Year Plan
at the Hoboken Shul.
Things otherwise are OK.
My apathetic cancer
is sunning near Cannes.
My car starts most days.
My exes have opened a store
called Les Trois Salopes.
They market pain. Soon I hope
my Napa friend
will find his way home to his cabin.
My Asian lover,
Chin Soo Kim, tucks
the sheets’ corners
too tightly. I forgive her
less and less
with each passing second.
Maeuntang
fills the house during wintry morns.
As an encircling skirmisher
I wound easily:
the clergy has become mortified.
For Mecca, I ruefully point
my mat westward
seven times a day. This way,
I am never the first in line.
What’s the diff? I contain triangles
and detours: I beg neighbors
to lay down their arms.
I coax perfect strangers
for five minutes of grinding comfort.
The shit never gets shoveled
fast enough. Patient, I am:
I ain’t goin’ no where fast.