Originally posted 11/12/2011.
Call upon any old saints, any old books;
you’ll find them retired, find them out of print.
Instead, call upon 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 all cases. Seek the favor of
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 for inspiration from The Blessed Version,
The Sherman On The Mount, The Irascible Conception;
proclaim them from a new Bible written by scribes drunk
on the manic milk of modern circumstance. Raise a banner for
St. Rattler of the found quarter, pray to
St. Lobster of the century reboot, celebrate
St. Jack at the feast of unicorn meat, open your heart to
St. Liminal of body cameras fashioned
from broken teeth and old lies.
Open the long shot gospel and say it, sing it,
give it all your voice: our saviors appear
on no altars, grace no chapel marquees —
hang on a while longer
to see if a saint may rise
to assuage this sharp bone, this death rattle moment,
in time to save us all.