Streamers of Reddish Green Light

Kenneth Gurney

 

Knowing my sainthood application
unlikely to receive the requisite
sixty votes in the senate,
I tip back a fifth pint to ensure
all the girls appear sexy
and start to long-tongue lick
the crucifix on the wall
of this Irish pub,
just to cause the real sinners
to emerge from their dark corners
as I left all my compassion on the bar
as a tip to the tender
of inebriation vehicles.

I trust your tongue is a red carpet
rolled out only for me, a wild
American girl says
and uses the popped balloon
of her despair as a condom
while my hands bucket her buttocks
against the blue flanks
of a vintage, alley parked GTO
and our rattling bones
vibrate the Day of the Dead
into the month of October
as the aurora borealis blooms
inside this upper peninsula night.

 

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