Eucharistic Doom Chantie: Boston to F.T Lauderdale

by Kevin DeMello Schutt
Sick of it. The insistent certainty of violence 
begetting a preset not surprised. It is difficult 
to make meaning from slaughter. It is difficult
to slaughter meaning and make. So many aches 
and breaks and good doctors touting elixirs and 
fixers, that work just as well as tying off a flea bit
limb until it turns blue and the body rejects it. Sick
of it, I call out “lord just say the word and we'll be
healed” The 83 passes at the corner where the mad
bag lady refrains from calling the passersby butchers
for the day, to brag about the raspberry pie she made
for The Knights of Columbus. Lord, I listen for the word
and I’m sick of its language and tongue tied off to become
blue and be rejected by the body.