This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
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Priests, Preachers and Pokémon
John R. Hunt
My rituals are thin,
I feel the bones,
flesh wasting away.
I can’t swallow fermented gruel,
dripping from the tongues
of blow-hard television evangelists
prancing like fools,
drunk on the sound of their words.
Bobble head Jesus wannabes,
they talk to hear their heads and wallets rattle.
My rituals are skeletons
pulled from the past,
structure without content,
content without meaning.
I study bones,
imagining the color of flesh,
the shape of lips,
looking for clues
to share with my children
who are empty,
except for Pokémon at ten o’clock,
SpongeBob at ten-thirty,
and Mel Gibson’s celluloid psychoses
to guide them.
My medicine-man turned on me
when I was twelve,
showing me his pocket monster
in the darkened sanctuary
of St. Stephens,
when other boys went home.
What do I feed my children now,
to fatten their souls?
