Home > write365. > Day 18: final rough draft.

Day 18: final rough draft.

Well—ladies and gentlemen, this is the first finished product of 2011. (Though I dont think it’s yet done. Without a doubt I will tinker with it here and there, experiment with line breaks, et cetera. In fact, I dont think I am wholly pleased with its appearance; it looks great in Word, but here? Not so much. But all that aside, I am pretty pleased with it.)


I received a newsletter from the Temple Priapus

in Montréal, tucked in the clearance between the swinging alder door
and cheap linoleum, where winter barks its croup on my toes, shrivels,
and spirits away. Plain envelope, an unmarked address. Little gossamer
penises embroidered the Canaletto sheetpaper inside. Pontifex Francis
tells us that Brother David of Racine Wisconsin had passed in autumn,
found carried through the Sheboygan to the shore of a Lake Michigan
campground. He had hanged himself naked from an iron bridge, long
pale figure suspended in the dusk, soughing faintly in the breeze, when
the rope worried to breaking and he plunged, hands over his bundle of
unregenerate flesh, into the river. A traveling family found his wooden
body, clean, chilled of color, among a swarm of bees, and of his dick,
the Pontifex says, it was in full worship of St Priapus, a tuning fork at
440 hertz.

Brother David had watched in his rear-view mirror a veinal
mushroom cloud bear down on the world, a wild frothing of dust that
bulls had kicked up in stampede. Downtrodden whine of his lifeblood
marching slowly to the end of a circuit, and he had fallen to his knees,
welcomed it like the brackish Eucharist he’d worked to receive. When
I was little an old priest burned last year’s palm fronds into a brass pyx
and thumbed the wet ashes across my forehead: I am dust, and unto it
I shall return: yes, like the flaking cross set on my brow, but not lightly,
not so lightly.

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