Father Confessor

Father Confessor

Is accepting calls this evening

In between the poetry

and the cigarettes

Another night

His daughter couldn’t make it

Dishes must be done

Father Confessor

Dreams of Pollack

and fleshy thighs

While penning relativity theory

mixed with metaphors

and a beautiful Indian mentor

lost between geologic timespans

spinning in a subway turnstile

Father confessor

makes a home

for his virtual foundlings

To dance among the alliterations

while bearing truths

found in gardens

and lovers’ beds

Father Confessor

accepts all fucks

shades of gray

cunts, whores, virgins,

and drug induced ramblings

We wanderers lost

in abandoned mines of

subconscious clawing

and introspective gnawing

scratch out our petty truths

as another electron spins

Father Confessor

can be found

by those who need to find him.