The bodhisattva poets perv from their shelves,
grinning hey Jehovah, mother Mary, motherfucker, marry me, mount me, make me wet, lick your fingers
touch her sweet lips gentle like turning the page of a Bible,
look deep into her eyes- she is yours,
she is beautiful as cool rain upon the Tenderloin of your soul washing all the dirt and waste and regret away.
Hallelujah, son, they cry from their shelves. Holy, holy, holy.
The sounds of the crowd down on the street below, the ass barkers shouting, Pussy! Pussy! Pussy! on Columbus.
Drunk laughter fills the first Saturday night of summer
The sound of her breath catching
hangs like lace off a hook in heaven.
Downstairs 100 hands touch virgin books
while she lets out a silent roar
all the love a universe can hold
before it tips, spills holy
water down the dark fabric of the sky
of her thigh, let us cry in joy for God is great
and God is good and God will bless the holy fools
and lovers. God will bless the holy fools and lovers
like us. Forever and ever.
The chair creaks its quiet secret rhythm
The poets bestow their crooked smiles
The world is not broken yet
There is still hope
If lovers like us still exist.