Burnt Offerings

(In honor of Saint Francis of Assisi)

Good morning Brother Microbus.
How are your fumings today?
My continually blackening lungs salute you.
I eagerly kiss your exhaust pipe.

Good morning and greetings to you Sister Garbage Heap.
How nice it is to see you growing
                                                 from day to day.
My stomach aches for your poisonous tidbits.
I hungrily gnaw at your piling un-recyclables.

Oh, hearty greetings and salutations dear Cousin Open Sewer.
How absolutely flushed and muddy you look
                                                                  this fine morning.
My innards pine in an atavistic longing when I see you.
I joyously drink in your miasmic splendor.

Well, hello, hello there sweet Nephew Noise Pollution.
How nice it is to bathe in your stereophonic secretions.
My brain and thoughts resonate to your stuttered cadences.
I happily sink into your ultra-tantric agitations.

Ah, good day to you sweet Niece Donkey-dung.
How many sidewalks did you cover this morning?
My skin yearns for a vestment made of you.
I gently caress the anus that gave you birth.

Greetings there dear Uncle Rundown Building.
May you forever represent the fate of this nation.
My body hungers to walk in your hollowed footsteps.
I mate with my whore in the acrid privacy
                                                              of your bosom.

Oh, sincere salutations to you lovely Aunt Upper-Class Landholdings.
May you forever mimic the growth of your dear old husband.
My foot longs to walk along your verdant pathways.
I bid all my beloveds adieu, as I leave them and you,
                                                                              and walk away.
                                                                              (I shan’t return).

Oh, greetings, greetings and more greetings dear Father Crumbling Mount.
How many unfortunate rocks have you shed this morning?
My right hand itches to massage your denuded soul.
I lustfully lick your exposed rotten core.

Hi there gorgeous Mother Imploding City.
Oh, how absolutely uninspiring you look this morning.
My everything thirsts for a bit of hope
                                                        still somehow buried
                                           in your loins.
I despairingly light a soul-made candle at your crowded altar.
And I wonder, I really do wonder,
Mother, Mother –
what sort of o b s c e n e
is taking place at your

April 1999