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

who, beforehand washed the sweat of the game 

from its balls in honor of little leaguers walking

through the narrow archway behind

the purple curtain — looked like a form of..some sort of..

3.
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 Mezza Testa's

yellow-stained fingernails and wait a minute !

I have proof ! I've got art !

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