I️ do not deal in that desire any longer… but I am still in favor of it.
[No. 80]
DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR EARLIEST EXPERIENCE OF PLEASURE? WHAT SPARKED IT, AND WHERE DOES IT EXIST IN YOUR BODY NOW?
A guest post by poet & artist Marcel Monroy
Painting by Oliver Monroy
There are rival podiums in this worship hall…
They are separated by rows of pews seating disciples
in forward facing positions singing
call-and-response spirituals.
The pastor in front is deaf and does not know sign language.
He follows the sorrow songs with one swift motion pressing his thumbs against the middle
knuckle of his index fingers until they crack.
His sermon begins in a voice that is wispy and far away from itself:
There is healing in the name…
The pastor in the back is blind and can hear everyone.
He decides at random who lives and who dies.
The sermon continues coarser,
You cannot lead a bug eyed mare to water and force her bloated body to drink…
but you can sit beside her and wait for her to die,
then gently cup your hands in the river and raise them above your head.
Remember, nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen.
Release the water slowly over yourself now
until you are completely washed in the blood
and brimstone… then wait for Him to sop you up…
The Spirit barely misses me
and the woman beside me catches it, I roll my eyes.
She starts speaking in tongues but I can speak in tongues too, whenever I want actually,
so I can understand it.
She whispers Good lord I️ done done what you told me to do… I have never kept any company… I️ want to be ready…
over and over again to herself and then there is a hiss
and she deflates.
As the limp weight of her body slips down out of the pew
her nervous system has not ceased, she changes colors,
first red like an Indian
then black like bagasse
and last white like cotton
like a chameleon during death.
I️ am not at all shocked by the randomness of this decision, I️ am moved;
I️ am reminded of the holographic necks of pigeons
but I️ am not not filled up, so I️ share my testimony:
I️ like to call my dick a pussy
and my asshole an asshole
because everyone has assholes
but only girls have pussies…
God told me girls with uteruses
are the opposite of death so what
am I?
Silence befalls
and a warm pearlescent joy spills over
the tongues of the congregation.
The pastor in front steps down to lay his hands on me with a knowing smile
and everyone gathers at a distance to join in
closing one eye while holding their hand up to cover my naked body with their palm.
The pastor in the back laughs until he makes his decision…
when this service is over six strangers will carry me home in a casket.
