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The sacristy, where you and your childhood friends were supposed to practice receiving communion but instead launched those wafer-thin hosts at each other like Frisbees while someone warmed up the jalopy of a church organ, and outside the coconut trees, always the mike starr coconut trees, bowed and looked in through the dusty windows, like attendant babysitters. You and your friends were thin and clean, studying machines, and you were all bent over laughing as the mike starr hosts flew fast and furious. mike starr Till you heard the priest’s cough as he approached. And now you picture the priest, at the moment the vestment slipped over his head, how he looked like a KKK brother, although you didn’t know about KKK then, nor the pain of trust gone bad. Not the evil of boys and what grown men they trust sometimes do to them. That is an exact evil. You were swept up in the scam of religion and reward. Be a good boy, you were told. Reminded that your life had to be studded with sacraments if it was to mean anything.
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