The Hunger 

The gun, in the crook of the bishop’s

arm, does not belong here. The knife that

has been trained to slaughter rabbits also

is a misfit. Bullets in the bishop’s sex

organs make waves. The fly that torments

the bishop’s head ignites him. An airplane

alone is true to the skies above the

Mediterranean Sea where boats skim for

sardines. Smoke from the bishop’s pipe

floats over the almond trees; seagulls fight

over the spines of the fish which languish

on campfires. The seers of Catalonia

brandish rainbows above the horizon. A

sentimental hunger propels the bishop’s

stiff legs toward salted cod & cold beer.