Am I an instigator
a provocateur
Do I stir the shit
Am I the Hero of my own Life
or am I the villain
What do I Remember
I remember
going to confession
as a 11 year old boy
I confessed to taking
the Lord’s name in vain
having impure thoughts
impure actions
and stealing
The Priest (we called him Tarzan)
asked me what I had stolen
.
At every Catholic grammar school
this one being Saint Hyacinth
word goes around
which priest is easy
at Confession
We all hoped for the familiar
“Three Our Fathers and 3 Hail Mary’s”
and we’d be pure again
(Baptism having absolved Original Sin)
The sin of our progenitor Adam
.
And this Fuck asks me
what I had stolen
“A shot, Father”
“A shot?”
What the hell was this...
My friends and I had shoplifted often
Usually Science-Fiction paperbacks
or Zim’s Field Guides
to the Natural Sciences
I had them all
Twelve as I recall
“A shot,” I repeated
“A shot?”
“A syringe,” I said
I felt his thoughts through the Gothic lattice
between us
Scenarios of a Dope Fiend
depraved and viral
flickered through his Blood of Christ head
like a ATF movie from the 30’s
“A glass syringe, Father
a shot. I took it from my doctor’s office
while I was getting dressed.”
And I had.
“I collect insects
butterflies
I use it for the Killing Jar
to put Formaldehyde in it”
It was true.
It would be six more years
and many sins later
that I first injected Heroin
into the pit of my arm
Syringe and a ‘killing jar’
impure thoughts and actions
god’s name into the vein
I sensed his excitement
Sex and Death
all in the same breath*
The priest told me to meet him
after school
in back of the Rectory
This alter-boy buggering Fool
thought he had encountered
an 11 year old junkie
He asked my name
which was never done
and I said, “Richard”
The apprehension of this juvenile delinquent
would make a great climax story
told in breathy whispers
into the ear of some orgasming nun
The Convent was kitty-corner
from the Rectory
It was July, 1960
and the annual Carnival
had just set up
its turbulent gear
in Saint Hyacinth’s concrete yard
on George Street.
The Confessional was a wooden enclosure
an ornate mahogany cabinet
Caligary or Calvary
with 3 cell like enclosures
Tarzan in the center
The penitents / all young kids
lined hugging the walls
on each side
nervously shuffling and waiting
to reveal their private lives
to a ‘celibate’ old man
who presumed he could Forgive
with the authority of god.
Death and Suffering permeated
that building proudly
festooned with agony and torture
in reliefs and painting and statues
depicting horribly mutilated human beings
and the Worship of the tattered Corpse
affixed to a fucking Cross.
Mea Culpa Mea Culpa Mea Maxima Culpa
“Bless me, Father
for I have sinned
This is my Last Confession.”
After I recited the Act of Contrition
He gave me
Three Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s
as my Penance
(I have never recited those.
Prayer as a penalty
seemed Sacrilegious then
as it does now)
I waded into the Carnival
and bought a ticket to the Ferris Wheel
It churned from the pit to heaven
The nadir and the zenith of my life.
