saint

At the monastery 

the monk pulls on his hood

even he knows

There’s no such thing as no style

He wears nothing but a thin brown robe

in hopes of

becoming a big S saint

And then eventually becoming

someone’s accessory 

somebody’s name

I’m so jealous

on the airplane

of the bald European boy

on his way to a monastery

in Oklahoma where he’ll cash out

an investment in forever

on the river the spouts grow mold

in the shape of the virgin Mary

of course I want to say something about myself

how my namesake is like

barely having a name

I’ll just spend the time he spends

praying and chanting

flying and driving

to different places to talk
about what to do