4847. YOU MAKE ME PENNILESS

YOU MAKE ME PENNILESS

And I don't care  -  I'm beginning to hate

everything and savor nothing alike. No distinctions

are charitable enough. The two white sisters, nuns

of the Sacred Something, are walking into the

hospital lobby -  their backs seemed hunched

to me, they look poor as they walk along. The 

burden of too many Jesus-years has them weighed 

down. So sad, when I look. How could they go on

like that  -  for years, crackers and water? The

equivalences of no thinking, the acceptance of an

old, rotten doctrine. It's no wonder their 

backs are crunched.

-

We should revel in everything, love the entire world,

eat sunshine for breakfast and lunch, fast our times away

with the lushness of sexual hardness, the deep squeeze of

coitus and cum. These two would never know that, formed

in their horrid dreams before some altar entwined

with chains and a miserable crown of thorns.

-

No wonder this hospital calls them  -  walking in

where dead men sleep, chastising themselves

while remaining meek. Poverty is a vow that's

come to me without asking  -  these two, by

contrast, took it on. I wish not to have them

spread it, like a foul disease, to others.

-

Find joy and happiness, dear sisters,

where you may, I guess; or where

you can. The world is a poverty

stricken place, yes, and you are

in it deep, up to your eyeballs

now, deep.