Missing Mass

Anyone who was raised Catholic will tell you that there is a statistically significant positive correlation between the amount of guilt one feels, particularly in that groggy state between sleep and consciousness, for not attending Mass on any given Sunday, and the amount of Catholic religious training one had. "It's a MORTAL sin," your brain whispers, "that can send your soul to eternal damnation, unless you make a good confession before you die."
My Vodou cannot kill that whispering demon, so my eternally damned soul instead watched the battle between good (Tony Dungy's Colts) and evil (Bill Parcell's Cowboys). Evil won. I believe that was the first sign of the Apocolypse.
Readying myself for the Second Coming, I really regret having failed to provide services from The Church of the Living Swing yesterday. Forgive me, O Lord.

Is This the Sticker?
Richard "Lord" Buckley, 1906-1960
(Cf. Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 1, lines 31-64)

Go, sound my chick to hip me when my juice is ready.
I'll be straight when she knocks the gong.
And you, make your sack and cool.

Is this the sticker which I dig deep in front,
The handle touting my flipped fingers?
Groove, let me dig your frame.
I'm hip you come on like a voodoo,
And yet, you rock me the most.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to the pinch
As to the scene, or art thou but a sharp freak of wig
Flying from an off-beat wig tilt?
I dig thee yet in form as this which now I am double-bugged by.
Thou hast false hipped me into this way of blowing
And hipped me....
Oh, that the sticker was the only lick.
My peepers are made the emblems of my other charges,
Or else, capping all others, I dig,
This is Cinerama!
And on thy blade and swinger
Flipped founts of the jumpin' red
Which was not the issue before.
Just another blowing phantom.
It is this bloody flip
Which hits thus to my glimmers.
Now, over my sweet sack world
My natural kicks won't jump
And bad dreams stomp and tilt my nod pads uncool go.
Boon voodoo buddy stallions
Tops Hecate's most phantastic jazz,
And with it, the twisted monster cat,
Sounded by his look-out, the gnasher,
Who's gut thunder his swatch mates with groovy temple
And swings with Tarquin's tall non-stop strides
Straight to his mad kicks.
Moves like a crazy scare-crow in the stoneyard.
Now, thou solid and firm-set sod,
Dig not my strides, which way they blow,
For fear that I shall knock a stone
And make known my riff.
And cool my wigs from the free drags that blow so righteous.
While I flip, he grooves.
Sounds to the heat of framed fiends too cold breath hips.
I must cut and it is covered.
The chimes call me.
But dig it not too rosy, Duncan,
For it is the swinger that will take you
To The Garden or to Heat City.

Translation for the squares...

MACBETH: Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit Servant.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murther,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit.