“Never bring the Lord an animal that
is blind, has broken bones, cuts, warts, scabs,
or ringworm. Never give the Lord any of these in
a sacrifice by fire on the altar."
—LEVITICUS 22:22


I offered my broken spirit
to the Lord and he ignored
me so I swam inexorably
towards the black light.

Somewhere between immaculate
conception & wireless reception,
the Wart of Satan was born. Oh,
fearsome wart, I am old & tired.
Talk down & dirty to me.

Blessed be your “snow day”
inception when I was alone
at home with the tube
& the lube & finished,
trumped the desperation
of the Last Supper with
homemade beef stew
aged in the freezer for
two wartless years.

The boxer interviewed said,
“I want to inflect damage
once I step into the ring.”
The Wart of Satan comprehends
all snot-knocking epiphanies.

In Leviticus, it says, “When
a wart becomes bed bound
upon your nose, do not despair.
It has only chosen a cushy coffin.”

In the soulless desert of
faux-quaint Minnesota, I hear
a homely Pillsbury doughboy
on Public Radio moaning
the blues so far off-key that
winos puking blood would
be sweeter music to me.
Wart of Satan, go thee to him.
Go thee to the Rolling Stones
who wiggle their wrinkled
wieners at the Super Bowl.

Not that it matters, but
in Leviticus it also speaks
of a green, green valley
where two bears danced
down a road covered
with dusty toads, each
step an explosion of toad
ghosts & warts.

Blessed be the dawn
& its expurgation
of historical facts.
But how should I react
to the minor cruelty of
a devil’s ship, a Mayflower
landing upon my nose?

The store bought remedy
is not poetical & quite
unlike a needed scalping.
It’s more like peeling back
the skullcap & peeing
on one’s brain. This is
your brain on drugs.

Of course there are
no atheists in foxholes.
I am no snitch & I
am no bitch (simply
something of a witch
with a cursed proboscis)
but I am going to kill
the Wart of Satan.

Poof.
Gone.
Merely a whisper
in my silver sky of age.
My flesh fluttered, rose,
tasted rain & stalled in
morose lack of movement.
You came with the dust…
& were gone with the wind.

This bereavement
is awkwardly odd.
Caught in a graceless angle
of vanity, I was weak
when I wanted you gone.
Wart, you most surely
were flesh of my flesh
& a flash of my ashes.