I'm tired of circumventing the false monk for an Oreo
as he hunches in feverish prayer and/or slumber.
When does dialogue with the godhead
turn to lusty visions of a nubile Roseanne Cash?
A false monk's mind is forever at cross purposes.
My bedclothes, with their cornucopia of crumbs,
reek of sacrilege beside the false monk's straw tick.
The false monk has his own chartreuse hand towel
for toileting, which he secretes in his cell,
though once I used it to remedy an indiscretion
and afterward, throttled by guilt, bought the false monk
a pack of disposable razors for his tonsure.
He wakens from his prayer/sleep intermezzo,
we play some PS2, he beats me at NBA Street,
I beat him, he utters a profanity, a few minutes later
I hear him in his cell, ministering to his impulses
with a cat o' nine tails. Better, anyhow, than the cilice.
I wouldn't be caught dead in one, though apparently
Thomas Becket was, and Prince Henry the Navigator.
The false monk's hairshirt sheds terribly over the couch
and wall-to-wall carpeting. I'm forever buying
lint brushes, which the false monk never
chips in for. Also, he never ponies up for beer.
Out of my fascination with certain aspects of monastic life (of course not the religious stuff or the vows of poverty or celibacy) came a series of poems involving the false monk, a guy who's not so much an “official” monk but still affects some of the lifestyle, for reasons both clear and opaque.