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Holy McDonalds

the Eucharist
by Katie Hogan

a priest with greasy fingers
shoving french fries
through his chapped lips,
smiling through his rotting teeth.

this is the body of christ.

and he laughs with his mouth
full, remnants of swept up
potatoes glued to his cheeks,
as his white collar grows tighter.

let us rejoice and give thanks.

he grabs his soda, lips eagerly
kissing the rim, chugging down
the ounces of aspartame in an
attempt to wash the pesticides.

this is the blood of christ.

he shoves a dripping patty
into his mouth, molars grinding
the cow’s corpse in a rhythm that
resembles an offbeat chant.

let us give thanks to our lord.

and the french fries stain
his robe, and the patty drips
down his mouth, and he is
still laughing with his mouth
full, laughing with his head back,
as his white collar grows tighter
and tighter and his face swells
from the chemicals off
the coated tiles. he is praising
something, he is praising
hallelujah with parted lips
and greasy fingers. this is what
we cannot see.

amen.

previously published by Fuck Art, Let’s Dance

previously published by Quiet Lightening

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Filed under: Fuck Art, Let's Dance

About the Author

Posted by

Jeremiah Walton is wary of bios, but there's the current sign they're flying: “Jeremiah Walton is founder of Nostrovia! Press & traveling bookstore Books & Shovels. They’ve featured at the NYC Poetry Festival, Oakland Beast Crawl, San Francisco Lit Crawl, Death Rattle, the Kansas City Poetry Throwdown, Cleveland’s Guide to Kulchur: Snoetry, among other lit fests, street corners, & living rooms across the country. They loath-themselves, & are struggling to find a healthy extension of the poem that incorporates publishing. Consistently confused, & trying to make space for compassion for the parts of myself I hate.” That feels like tattooing "love me" across my neck, but hopefully you get to know me thru my poems, not the accolades that are nothing more than memories to let go of.

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