Dedicated to Richard Beck

Whatever this is, it
                should at least  include
    a crack pipe
            or even the cigarette butt
            my auntie just flicked
            and herpes because sharing
            steamrollers with strangers
    is often cheaper
    than   sharing   bread

Whatever this is, its hour
                should gather us like a
    free clean-needle clinic and soup kitchen
                in all our alterity as ones who
                swallow our own warm spit
                together and sing strange
              welcomes to our endless thirst
      without cups because we
      can’t              fix           ourselves

Whatever this is, its space
      should have hard a time
              of silence so we hear each others
              wet lips  smack the metal
              sucking wine like thumbs
      because sharing wind is a lot
      like     holding       sound

If there’s a priest in whatever this is,
            she has gentleness tattooed above her eye
            and she tells my auntie her herpes are beautiful
            and tells us to consecrate the
            shards                 of shit                 we eat               each week
            as the Eucharist it all is
            and she tells us we’re all gonna die
            someday, her too, and that it’s
            best to die without using heaven
            as a coping mechanism
            because death
            like my auntie
            is beautiful.

Whatever this is, its final words before communion
    instruct us in this way:

Sip the blood of Christ with

 your
lips
on
the
chalice
after the lips of one who
sucked
meth
from
a
glass
dick
to
hold
vigil
in
the
Garden

And so I took my sip.

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