Celibacy
Lunatic
I am in love with the Moon.
Some call me a lunatic;
my lunar tick resembles a wolf howl,
a primal hunger well below higher thought.
I monitor her cycles,
transfixed by her luminescence.
My eyes form cataracts to
mimic her milky presence;
the way she dances across darkened skies
mesmerizes me every night.
She graced me with her presence
once. I normally see her
in my dreams, but I got lucky –
for three whole months,
she was absent from her celestial throne.
The world around us plunged into chaos,
but our sphere of influence
was heavenly. Bodies colliding,
our breaths shared a rhythm
the tides would envy.
I lost track of time
gazing deep into her every night;
her full phase charged my beating heart,
its tempo crashing heavier than oceans
upon the surf.
Slowly, the skies began howling
for the High Priestess – the sea
needed a master, and Gaia
missed her mother.
I could tell she didn’t want
to leave me; I noticed my own desperation
reflected on her pale surface.
Her ascension was beautiful to behold,
but did little to relieve the weight in my chest.
Maybe our romance couldn’t last forever –
I am still in love with the Moon.
I will always be a lunatic,
whose howls shake the stars
held within my own verse.
I quiver like the restless ocean,
awaiting my true love’s return
with my toes dipping into the surf.
Cire Luey Freemind
"Clergynity"
by Jeph Johnson
I asked a religious friend of mine, who is a big fan of Pearl Jam, and is always trying to convince Eddie Vetter abortion is wrong,
(so are condoms, by the way)
how many 33-year old virgins he knew.
I was trying to argue that being a devoted Christian for ten years made me some sort of weird freakish outcast.
No one believes me anyway, and then when I try to explain myself I get smirks of disbelief.
I was told by my church-going buddies (who'd lost their virginity in high school while "backsliding") that some girl will really appreciate it some day.
Now all I meet are single mothers, divorcee's and seventeen-year-old's who are more experienced than I am.
...and they could care less!
I asked him again:
"How many 33-year-old virgins do you know of?"
He smiled.
I had forgotten he was Catholic.