The Ballad of St. Dymphna

The mornings found Everett Burnside laid prostrate on the sidewalk in front of St. Mary’s Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. To the unbelievers that stepped over him and his dirty needles, he would appear dead. But he was merely praying to St. Dymphna, the patron saint of sleep. The warm afternoons resurrected him to steps of the church where he would watch the passing summer girls shedding layers. Parading before him with sinful amounts of flesh exposed. He would proclaim his opioid-tongued homily, ending it with, “He has risen!” Everett did not let his left hand know what his right hand was doing down his pants as he jerked off for Jesus. He has risen, indeed.