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Click hereTrip lettered in wrestling, he still wore the jacket,
he still wore the nickname he got from his coach.
If you called him his real name he'd act like a stranger--
what the hell kind of man is named Myron?
Trip had a head like a Halloween pumpkin
and ears like the suicide doors of a Lincoln,
his belly was round and as hard as a fist,
and Trip never smiled because Trip was pissed off.
Pissed off at women and faggots and fate
and his god damned job and that punk over there
with the fruity haircut and watery eyes--
what the hell kind of man wears an earring?
Trip once beat a fag with a Louisville Slugger
for asking if they'd ever met in Saint Pete.
Hate rose off Trip like a highway mirage
and lived in his eyes like a rat in a cage.
Trip read a book once, he didn't much like it,
a book Father Murphy had shoved down his throat,
a book about pigs that turned out to be Commies--
why the hell can't things be what they are?
He still had the book on the shelf with his porn tapes,
a cartoon on the cover of pigs in top-hats,
and when he was drunk he would read the inscription
Father Murphy had written in delicate script.
When Trip was a boy he had served at the altar
of the church of Our Lady of Sorrows.
He liked lighting candles and swinging the censer
and the smell of the incence and funeral flowers.
And he liked Father Murphy until that Palm Sunday
he'd unzipped his pants in the rectory office
and Trip knelt before him in fear of damnation
and tasted the sacrament salt on his tongue.
"How can there be sin in an act born of love?"
Father Murphy said softly as he dried Trip's tears
and councilled that silence was pleasing to God;
The boy never whispered a word to a soul.
Trip never forgot and he never forgave,
but on hazy drunk Sundays he'd find himself kneeling
at urinal altars in truck-stop cathedrals,
sucking salvation from nameless, young saints.
Reminds me of he expression: "God, protect me from those who 'love' me; From my enemies I'll protect myself"
Still this wisdom could not have helped the trusting soul of a child. Heart renching especially with your usuall power images.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,500 poems.
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A truly tragic figure you start out detesting till the rest of the story's revealed and you feel rage at what happened to him and sad sympathy for how his life's spun out of control.
...place needs a 'notify' so I know when my fave poets have posted!!
Too busy to check new listings... glad I did!!! Fantastic as always Mutt. Love your stuff!! ;-)