Hagiography

St. Teflon, patron saint
of bullet dodgers.

St. Tango,
source of comfort against
blind divergent storms.

St. Bullwhip,
defender against the wealthy.

St. Lifter, overseer
of the doomed in any case.

St. Angelcake, who strokes
the heads of the raped. St. Watchfob,
who picks fruit and cleans the poisons
from the flesh.  St. Linger,
warrior with no hard weapons.
St. Rollie Of The Bones,
bringer of square deals and luck.

Call up the old saints.
You’ll find them retired and
disinclined to help.  “Not our world,”
they say.  “Not our gospel.  You need

The Blessed Version, The Sherman
On The Mount, The Irascible
Conception, a new Bible written
by scribes drunk on the manic milk
of modern circumstance.  You need

St. Rattler of the found quarter,
St. Lobster of the century reboot,
St. Jack of the feast day
of unicorn meat.
Call that the long shot gospel
and hang on. They’ll make a saint
for you,
someday,
and maybe it’ll even be in time.”