Tuesday, February 9, 2010


by Damien Toman

Whiskey-soaked tobacco,

Pinched and withdrawn from

A bronze-bottomed glass,

Is flicked to the floor,

Not brought to the lips:

And so, whiskey-soaked,

Am I wasted.

I meditate on this and then

I meditate on He

Who, whiskey-soaked from His

Bottomless grail,

Spoke soberly of the threshing floor,


You, too, will be beaten

With rod and with flail,

Hacked from the husk

And mashed

Into host, my body;

Consumed. It was Sabbath day.

His disciples, half-drunk,

All had appetites.

The husbandmen were horrified,

And His heresies were numbered

By the hungry, mumbling Pharisees nearby.

*Damien's website: www.DamienTavisToman.com.

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