I wrote a letter to my final friend and confidant.
I explained to her everything,
even why the Earth was round.
I suggested we go somewhere
or take a trip;
Perhaps a chapel where cups of wine
dissolve into confession—
and the holy goat chews razor wire
until he is ground 6.99 per pound.
Bethlehem was both a blessing and a theme park,
because the clergy had a taste for cotton candy
and a scent for burning rubber.
I left my rosary on the bumper car seat,
but not before trading it for some Japanese jewelry.
I told her violence is just another form of expression.
I told her everything,
except for what really happened.
Don’t be hurt if I slap your face.
Be happy I let you feel my rage.
You may condemn me for never reading the Bible,
but you should know I listened to the audio tape version.
You can call me a sell out
only after I die without redemption.
You can call me a poet
only after I lick the outline of your spirit.
I wrote a letter to the woman
who discovered my pastel body.
I explained everything,
except for why I didn’t write her sooner.
She took a moment
before she answered my note.
“May The Lord have mercy
on your Soul.”