Host Card

The Jesus of my Catholic youth
bid me come 
as a little child.

The finger pointing Sacred Heart
like a passing billboard
"You're Name Could Be Here."

I read brilliant smoking atheists
and wonder whose name they'll cough
up final in blood spit.

I read monks, who never knew stamps,
writing letters
of eternal consequence, by candle and quill.

I stick my knuckles out
for the nuns to rap, but only the Lord answers,
perfecting the Harlem shake.

Charity all
after cure and care
are settled alike.