Poem for Catholics

I don't remember the name of the building just that 
it was in the back of the Saint James Church and the other 
that was, that was heavy stone that I 
seemed to have retained the feeling of in my hands. 

It's where you had to go for CCD if you were going to get 
Confirmation if your parents were even halfhearted 
Catholic like mine were. I was 10, 11 years old. 
I'd go in there with my CCD pencilcases and all 

the different smells of things, my assignments and 
so forth. Not that I wanted to be there, of course, 
doing religious study and the same years George Fischer 
was giving children their first impressions regarding 

sex, nocturnal emissions -- the years around when a kid 
would be looking for something like a permission-slip to go 
to Washington D.C. (and...incomparably, buy the 
Plastic Surgery Disasters/In God We Trust, Inc. at a record store.) 

And you'd have that kind of magic working its 
charms & affinities like the sound of a fingernail picking, 
peeling at the shrinkwrap of the square/jewelcase) 
(and fragmented ones: the top or bottom feet 

(of the cover/doors snapped away, 
cracks creased along the face/exterior.) 
I never wanted to be there, that building I can't 
remember the name of. 

It's not exactly that I hated it. It's that I hated 
being kept away from my Sunday Morning. 
I wanted to be home watching new X-Men Cartoons, 
or at least Animaniacs. 

Try to find love for the regenerating earth 
in the Cathedral eyes of sallow teachers, the glib fate 
of their neutrality: See it. See where the trees 
carry the martyrs. 





**** 
Thanks to fucking air you breathe. Can I has my identity too? 

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