back when men were men
and Popes were Popes
and mystery was still sublime
when the Pope came out to
check his shadow each winter
and it was long, vast, and feared across America

they’d give Pope the ball
knowing he’d dunk it every time
because he never passed
and he refused to dribble
angel in the paint
demon on the pave

towering on the dance floor
in communion with the beat
Pope would get low
evoking reverence & awe
tears, penance, & jubilation
and there—in exaltation—
they would bring him his saxophone

beaming his smooth & brazen sound
to every radio across the empire
but now, it’s just a thousand
little drunk popes
like pagan gods—
hard-luck, itinerant seraphims
ruling blackmarket theosophies
huddling over burnt offerings
for the smell and the warmth
of cooked meat—

you have to find your own pope
be a pope of one’s own
drunk & alone with
the moon & your shadow
prodding the dead grass
in the godless night

————

Axe Cornwell is a technocrat at heart. He lives in the woods in Quebec learning no French at all. You can find him on Instagram (@axe.cornwell) or Substack (@axecornwell).