Ritual

by Mark Blaeuer

Robbing a vending machine
reminds me:
we were coat hangers bent to fit,
learning from the Master.

I punched Him out once,
but I could have been happy
with a handful of rice, a gourdful of water,
in an alley.

Another time He
flushed a porkpie one disciple had puked in.
Our toilet vomited the hat back up, which He donned
(we grunts

had drunk Old Montezuma to reach
blottohood).
Ah, philosophy
busting the bronco perception—

“How is knowledge worn?”
Like an exploded cigar.
“Is there really a worm at the bottom?”
Yes, of everything.