Well and good—
that's what I want to do.
Half-empty of the spirit
that fills that space below the belt,
we pray nightly to beer ads,
whose profits preach the gospel:
Be 110 percent
of all a good man can be,
which is equal to
a woman,
or your life,
or your living,
or the action of your parts:
{blood, blame, dollars, inches, flowers}
How much
of what
is what you do worth?
Can you fill the tender void
with rock-hard, primal pride
long enough to compensate,
virgin pussy nothing-boy?
What hurts really doesn't,
and your tears make you weak—
and She will only come
if you're real enough, son.
Oh, Great God of Budweiser,
why does Our Lady cry?
A million bucks for thirty seconds
of scripted love between actors,
and there is no Heaven in the end zone,
where I lie flat-out on my back.
You have forsaken me, Father.
I know not what I do.
No taste, less filling.
Yeah, that's all well and good:
hair on my chest,
an empty glass inside it.
So fuck yourself, God,
and fuck myself, too,
but leave the rest for me
to fuck forever after.
Honorable winner
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