Onion Sermon

“Yeah man. Bo called.
Wants whisky to loosen
the lightning inside him. Hell.”

(Flips two pucks of meat in a pan.)

“That won't work but once. He's done
his kingkong stomp in the street
set to punch a hole in the sky. Could burn
through a wall with his eyes. No.”

(Sniffs a whiff of thin steam.)

“He needs to sit still in silence awhile.
Meditate. Concentrate past the cracks
jangling everyone around here.
But where could he find his own space?
Peace has a price in this place. And a private
quiet room is way past his reach. Damn.”

(Snows salt on the sizzling meat.)

“He needs a shack on the beach.
But then he’d need to work
all the time just to keep it. Shit.
Welfare should build a colony
of shacks on the shore for poor monks.
Call it Lost Coast Estates. Wouldn’t solve
society but maybe save some souls. So.”

(Snaps off the flame on the stove.)

“You want onions on yours?”



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