Undecipherable money worship.


The chariots rode into town
blaring trumpets
and waving spider webs
like white, cotton kites
and the soldier watched the cheering crowd
all smiling with blood on their teeth
and scriptures dripping from their curled fists
and the soldier felt as empty as wind
when he jumped off the back
and made his way through the blistering crowd
their eyes vacant, their hearts rattling with ice
everyone was like a bee sting
clawing and banded amber jewels
wearing spears and hammocks on their backs
in which to swing above a lazy flower
before the dark stones fall from the sky
and Jesus is riding a missile
spreading handfuls of love dust
across the widening gap of mankind
and he plants the point of the missile
right into the dirt lot of the Cactus Gin
a splintering roadhouse joint
on a desert road
a long, spindly caramel kiss
warmed and running
across the bourbon asphalt
the mellow yellow of factories
glows like a foggy harbor veiled in red velvet
and the broken bulbs of the Cactus Gin marquee still flash,
the craggy edges are crusted black
the little heartbeat light
flickers like a sick Christmas tree
and inside…
floating malnutrition
backward evolution
noise pollution


And the son of God ordered a whiskey
and smiled at the people he created
as they danced and fought and loved,
cried and laughed and ached…
to the slow grind of a melancholy jukebox
and he brought with him an angel
one with a rhombus head
and stunted wings
and the angel was singing the grief
of all she suffered on her leash
and a weepy guitar began to groan in the corner
Jesus was singing a song about peace and love
and the congregation began to throw beer bottles at
him
and Jesus spoke into the mic…
“Oh great. Here we go again.”
But he took the blows with harmony,
nibbled the glass between his teeth as he sang
weaving tanglewood hopes through the vibrating cave.



And the madness began to settle
as he curled before the window
the soldier was home but shaking
he was upset about the killing he had done
his wife a dozen miles away on sleepers
the children were slaves
the plays were robbing their minds
of any moral foundation
the madness had spun out of control
to the point of consensual acceptance
like morphine in your I-V
the slow drip of horror shows gone real
and fishing down by the river
was no longer notated in the wired almanac
as simply two boys and a bucket of worms
a shingle thatched roof
crowning a famous whitewashed bait and tackle shop
glows in the background
like a slice of warm care
or apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top
cinnamon showgirls lifting their skirts
and squirting you with a city sweet…
that’s life with those eyes,
what is this undecipherable want?


Your thoughts?


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