miracles, gingerale and Michelangelo

far away, in Rome, the ceiling of the Vatican was touched
up - rejuvinated like the sneezes held just behind the hairs
in my big fat nose

while i swigged back and relaxed a long ponder about
the nature of marble and man
February 18th came and went

"Why do you care?" my mother asked me
I didn't answer

I never answer
because who can understand an angel in the architecture
a chorus line,

or Michelangelo's great great great great great grandson's tonsils
in a little jar waiting to reveal dead greatness to a doctor
who never appreciated Faith or art.

I never answer,
because once spoken
it's all another cliche.

I'll be damned if my words tame me
while i can still yo-yo
or waterski
or monkey-tame ...
while I'm still so young
my hair so long
my legs still walking so surely
and every moment
me with that infernal breathing.