The Great Masturbator
Catholic men become aroused
by the thin dust that swirls around the room
in the azure glow of a thin windowpane.
Catholic men curl their fingers
and their toes in fright
at the sight of a grasshopper grazing along the horizon.
Catholic men saunter bow-legged and knobby-kneed
in rented tuxedoes,
quick to discover any other Guido among them.
Catholic men cause the lonely birds to coo in the withered trees.
Catholic men take the body of Christ into their own bodies;
exhale it like a hurricane haunted by popery.
Catholic men find sunken faces salivating -
underneath the melted teeth that feel of nothing but Spanish silk.
Catholic men awaken in the night to find satchels hung along their bedposts,
coins placed on their eyelids,
and clusters of ants sauntering across their bellies.
Catholic men pull black lace over their wives faces -
those wives who dream of silent atheists,
alluringly lollygagging in the ashen shadows of their bedrooms.
Catholic men climb barren trees;
lick the lovely lilies that grow up from the throat of the earth,
thrashed clean by a malleable lions tongue.
Catholic men write letters of farewell to the sunset;
and like good sons they've wept for the surrendering of it,
and with the red shadows of day still steeped on their thighs
they turn their backs on the thought of castration.
Catholic men hunt wild rhinoceros' bones
in the depths of the Casablancian desert, becoming Africanized,
and upon receiving their pearly white tusks sketches
Raphaelian portraits of their wife's faces, again, and again.
Catholic men do love.
Dali says: noli me tangere
for God's I am…
*noli me tangere - "touch me not."