Chicagoetry: St. Catherine of My Cock

St. Catherine of My Cock

I will never understand.
This is the beginning, and
the end.

I will never understand
what it means to be
a woman.

Attending to customers
with the basest allure, eyes
flashing

like airplane lights,
Cate shattered
my dimension.

It was
devastating
stuff!

She was first god
of the world, first light.
She is raw power.

She filled my cup, babe,
that's for sure. If God is dead,
something is alive!

How everywhere she is!
Warmth, softness, tears, milk and iron.
She said I began sticking my chest out.

This will
always
be so.

The skyscrapers
in the Loop
are the tallest, the richest.

The hoi-polloi
surround them
north, south and west,

all huddling toward
the proscenium
of the shore.

Tonight
the sky-gods are playing!
Tonight's fare stars the moon

as Aries the Rapier,
Moon Cad on the Make,
Hostage to Destiny!

The stars are Chorus
and the clouds Warrior
Arjuna. The lake

the stage,
the river,
the main aisle.

I wrought a drama
for to Galahad
my Catherine,

a bribe for mercy,
a trifle for her majesty's
amusement about a goddess

who vaguely resembles . . .
Catherine?
She sees. She is pleased.

I set the stage. She seethes.
She whispered "I'm nervous!"
and she was In, baby!

Catherine the Great,
Mistress of Pagan Lust,
Queen Slut of Babylon

redolent of
drama, music
and miracles.

"You got
my heart, you got
my soul.

You got
the silver, you got
the gold."

All I had left
were diamonds
in a deep, dark mine.

"We are gathered, here,
today, to celebrate the American Way!
Let the miracles begin!"

Penthouse on a Bog-Hole!
Sky Box on a Gang War!
And then she said: "I want more."

Lo! Behold: Hallowed St. Catherine,
Dew-Faced Convert, Radiant of God
and refulgent with fecundity!

WTF?
GOD?
OMG!

Propagate miracles, sure, sure:
the poet, the physician, the farmer,
the scientist,

aldermen,
liquor distributors,
online entrepreneurs . . .

Who knows?! Maybe, some day,
a Space Genghis for to ruminate
upon the Martian Ganges!

Before the vows,
my cards were, as they say,
upon the table.

She held back
her Ace in the
Bog-Hole

until afterwards.
"You held back.
You . . . lied."

"I love you," she said,
"but I have to
go . . . "

And then my mind
said something my mouth
did not:

"Then go: go
fuck yourself and go
fuck your 'love.'

Let 'love'
transfigure me into
your stigmatized Saint?!

Jesus!
Are you a woman
or a ruthless, mercenary

little girl?
Grow, as they say, UP.
Or don't, and

just keep
telling yourself
'He didn't love me enough.'

Enough! Aye,
as they say,
there's the rub.

Quantity
is it.
Telling.

Go. Keep
going. Surely, some cad
will cave.

Go. Keep
going and keep
telling.

Don't tell me what I need.
And don't tell me who I am.
I am the night, and the dawn.

I am dew-light on a fawn.
I grew up when I was still
mowing lawns.

She is cool
to me now
and I stay cool.

I will never understand!
I could ruminate with the zealotry
of a convert

and still end up shit-broke
on a creek bank - just waitin' there
for a little more - but

this is not the end.
This is the beginning.
We are gathered, here, today,

sluts, saints and moon cads,
trying to understand.
And it is a miracle.

This will always be so.

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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood's poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.

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More Tindall:

* Music: MySpace page

* Fiction: A Hole To China

* Critical biography at e-poets.net

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