Sacrament

We sit in the hovel

Spinning tales within hash clouds

And over his harvest of grapes

I, a lost pilgrim

He, the lordly Host

A sojourner here, and a fool,

I habitually keep reaching for the plump, round choices of his vine,

my rabbi-sage watching, 

mirth in his eyes 

Chuckling his own prayer-joke to the skies

Supping with my Host, 

he points an ancient brown finger to... to what?

To what does my shaman direct my soul? 

Eternity is in this gesture.  

To where does the hand of the Ancient One guide me?

...

He points to the brown and smashed grapes,

He points to the runts, leftovers, misfits

Seeing but not understanding, 

Listening but having no ears to hear,

I am bewildered.

Yet he is laughing, praying

Pointing 

"Take and eat."

Who am I to question God?

Humbly I obey:

I Eat The Misshapen Grapes

... and they are the best of all.

Now, feasting, we laugh at Americans

and their love for the shiny

and how they have forgotten 

the taste of bruised fruit

But not I

I will remember His Salvation 

I am a stranger no longer in this land

For the secrets of the heavens are being laid bare:

eat the cursed grapes;

Consume the God-damned ones.

Their taste is sweetest.