Cock Tales For Two

Cock Tales For Two Sunny Saturday morning and Mass is over. Sacrifices were made, Vestments in hiding, Cruet of wine is emptied, by me, in me, not down the drain. Chasuble is hung exposed, With my name in Magic Marker, It marks the Mark. The invitation from the priest is casual, We’ll go to the beach, bring some other boys, burgers after. All splashing in the waves Yellow flag today. White means safe. Red means danger. Priestly Hands and arms, And body weight, Press me down Below the brew. Instinct to struggle, panic and fear rinse and repeat Downpressor, oppressor, Priestly Teacher of intimidation and fear, silent warning of, the real imbalance of power Father says don’t forget Store this memory in your duffle bag with your towel The second wave cums. A stop at the Banya, down the street and to the right. Custom dictates no vestments for this Mass Just cedar and oak leaves tied together, on a stem, like a crucifix on Palm Sunday, and buckets full of soapy baptismal water. The priest takes inventory: ? Imbalance of p0wer ? Beach terror memories in place ? Hot and steamy ? Bucket of soapy water ? Naked boy ? No one around ? Just the two of us Brush of oak leaves, smooth of hand. Remember the Mass. Serve the Mass. Remember the Master. Serve the Master. Remember the power, To change water into wine. That trick will come in handy later on. Years before rehab number one! It’s more like changing: Money into wine Family into wine Soul into wine Self into wine Wine into self Life into wine Wine into wine Be the wine I never collected marbles. baseball cards, rocks or arrow heads. Just Lego Banya secrets, Enough to build a coffin, to inhabit because you never seemed to, fit into the neighborhood, or the skin your Mom and God gave you. Must be because the secrets always, add a few pounds to the picture.