closing my survey of Priest Mezzatesta's reign

-when god looks like the guy on the ceiling-

1.
when I’m no longer engaged

either remembered

or not remembered

but dead nonetheless;

when recollections end,

when storytelling ends

and my early friends die as I die..

2.
Priest! MezzaTesta!— the chosen one
waits in the sacristy by way of the ballpark

(as was your preference) who, beforehand washed

the sweat of the game from its balls in your honor

for the honor of your company through the narrow

archway behind the purple curtain — looked like a form of,

some sort of..

heavy, felt-like material, hung where time-saving stores

in pre-blessed holy water was shelved,

(it's a natural thing) —  the sour scent of nicotine wafting

from under the yellow-stained fingernails and wait a minute!

I’ve got me a poem around here somewhere...