Pope Francis watches me masturbate,

from the mirror atop the dresser.

Nana gave me the photograph to watch over me,

but now the vicar of Christ, holy father

watches my hips rock in devilish ecstasy,

the psalms are lost on these palms

climax is the closest we get to salvation,

men and woman do it the best so if

the youth are drawn to it like the wisemen to the lord,

how many believers sit white-knuckles and shackled,

never knowing salvation exists between their thighs?


Nana told me masturbation makes you go blind

so only do it until you need glasses!

Here I am bifocaled and gnostic

sprawled and decorated in sin,

I don’t think of the Eucharist of release

or the genocides of unborn children

in their Kleenex graves.


We’re almost at the gates now,

the jig is up, how many times will we take this dance?

the door is shut after all we could get into trouble.

Have you never stirred beneath your gown

a prying eye to the phallic obelisk outside your window?

Heavenly Father, I stroke for atonement.

Damian Rucci