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Mostly it’s hard to think about The Fall
or Eve’s Sin or Great Satan’s Odd Toenail,
rat rot disease, on most good days. The gall
of our bedtime stories is that female
prophets keep stepping up, trying to fix
things, though no one seems to give a rot’s shit
for their blood, sweat and queers. A few cynics
blame it on pornos. The Pope blames Chick Lit.
(true fact) but mostly I keep forgetting;
for we worship each other with our trust
and our deep inner parts recall gushing
spray, the comfortable odor of our lust,
passion’s birth, rebirth, we feed on friendship,
like new priests crying in awe at worship.
memories of my ghost sista 