Moonlit Ministry

Up Charlie’s gleeful soul-sleeve
lies the frank fact that 
attendees rarely genuflect
or scuff and scab their knees.

Dress code being blue collar drab
it’s effortless for folks that work
and don’t disguise the tics and quirks
so easily detectable for those with,
for example, eyes that see-
burnt-out, noble nurses,
grumpy garbage men and maids,
flunky junkies not too far gone,
slacker soda-jerks, crabby-ass cabbies-
everyone slightly stinky
and a bit worse for the wear-
they shiftily form a funky flock. 

Across the board
this motley
(not to deride) 
almost hoard
deserves little more
than the obtuse orations
hobbled with torturous tangents
and oxbow-slow, dimwit digressions
which preside. 

Though they be infused 
with some sacred individual,
inner music conjured and cobbled
without hocus pocus
the speakers can not be confused
with an orator whose focused. 

But Charlie doesn’t champ
his well-chewed bit too much,
for when the time is come
no half-hearted howling
there takes place,
their noisey joy is not enjoined
and basically beatific turns every face,
all aflame with impeccable intentions,
be they in sin quite quaint,
voraciously venal or mildly mortal,
they’ll burn but moments longer
til the shabbily administered ablutions
clean the collective/clotted consciousness.

Charles then returns to
ancient dream-themes favored,
looks about while inward
oathing all devout
he’d not sell out
for sex or money
if he could one day
find and savor 
a girl-shaped fount
of blood and honey.