Call up the old saints.
You’ll find them retired and disinclined to help.
Call instead for The Blessed Version,
The Sherman On The Mount, The Irascible Conception;
read from a new Bible written by scribes
drunk on the manic milk of modern circumstance: speak of
St. Teflon, patron saint of bullet dodgers.
St. Tango, source of comfort against divergent storms;
St. Bullwhip, defender of the wealthy.
St. Lifter, overseer of the doomed.
St. Angelcake, who strokes the heads of the raped.
St. Watchfob, who picks fruit and cleans poisons from the flesh.
St. Linger, warrior with no hard weapons.
St. Rollie Of The Bones, bringer of square deals and luck.
St. Rattler of the found quarter.
St. Lobster of the century reboot.
St. Jack of the feast
upon unicorn meat.
Open that long shot gospel,
hang on a little while
till they make a saint just for you,
maybe even in time to save you.
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