One of my marriages
got erased like
a club-footed geek
getting his neck
too close to the hedge
in a steeplechase.
It was the Pope’s henchman
and no it ain’t like
filing for a civil divorce.
It’s morally cleaner than that
in an ugly-bloated-belly way.
The Ex simply pays for it
in cold hard cash and in
the severing of old vows
she gets a shiny new arcade glory
to fasten on her rosary when she prays;
the paperwork starts in some
little insignificant rural town
straight for the heart of Rome.
The Vatican there has so much
power they can take the diamonds
out of the Devil’s eyes
and throw a prodigal son
the bone of being dethroned.
They’re human pride strippers,
and if they find you alone at home
you’ll curse they day you were born.
Course I took out some rambling insurance
a very long time ago, heading across
the Montana prairie to live with Crows—
my dancing in the Sun Dance blew them away.
Sometimes your trail dust can cancel
out all the hidden blows,
make your armor out of truth
and your biggest fans that are foes
will cringe at the light in your soul.
One of my friends said
it improved my battling average
‘cause one less matrimony toll
showed less of a percentage
on my life-with-women record.
It’s good to know the slate can be
by some slight of pompous hand
and by the magic of the Papal State
wash out everything with
nothing ever happened
in any form of flesh and bone.
For me though there will
always be a fitful undertow,
a farce of weapons that darken the glow
‘cause nothing once true ever
completely vanishes into thin air:
not the hair on your chest
or the nipples pressed hard
like a thousand wet kisses
in the backseat of the ’55 Merc;
an afternoon picnic with milk cows
coming through the underbrush
to watch us and hear our laughter
ring at such a rustic audience
where we only brought to the meadow
our naked bodies and of course our youth.
I could never smooth
over failure by holy guile
and look at myself in the mirror;
besides it wasn’t all bad
‘cause you taught me how to fly
away from every controlling fear.