The Jesus Wars (II)


Along beaten, treaded, leaden streets
a man comes, muttering gibberish and awaiting to meet
some lady who promised to wait—despite
the crimson (h)our growing late.
To escape (the post-everything-nothingness and delusions
of meaning) some passing fancy, something hate,
the man abruptly jerks


in the moment before they cross, he
hails Marry and crosses the Cross. She
like a succubus writhing from Macedonia
gestures for him to come. Inveigles him to stay.
Coaxes and urges the worries worldly away. All.
And he ask "Are you?"
Yes. "Am I what?"
"That woman, from the shop."
She smiles: perhaps. They enter
the threshold,
the chokehold
and upon the Tabletop, she gathers her Tarot cards
"Care for your fortune to be read?"
"Voodoo and mysticism, I am Christian—I am holy."
She smiles: as am I, as are we.
"How about some bone-picking then? What say you?"
"I am—"
"Enough. Leave. You squander lifetimes away."
In solemn beats, in sober cadence, the face is turned
(and innards and gizzards) inside out.
Wither-whether-wilt, oh damn the weather. The
thoughts, the meaning(less)ness, the heretical
wands and desires, blending together
merging—emerging, they are becoming. And
when she vise-grips his wrists
he lets her crush the softened bone-clay. (Chamotte from Old Chateau.) And
think: am I? am I?
Am not, am not-hing. Ring, the
church bells cling.


throat runs
tongue falls


Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is invoked
like a heathen nymph He
steps out from the wood and onto liquid fire.
Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is salvation
to bring, heralding, spoiling
lives and minds (and the lies).
Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is dying
dying, not stirring. And who dared to clip
the lion's wings? And what dared to skin the sheep?


"Let me tell you something of dead men,"
J. jests.
"They are dead."
Glancing up from smoky ruffles and shuffling cards:
Think. Peer. Discern.
"My Fat Friend—you said, my Friend D.—is a romantic
so think ill of him not.
Think of him as the no-one."
"And are you some-one then?" the lady asks
and the world stands motionless. A lady serenades, spins, speaks.
"Do you fear loathing too? Do you despise being despised?"
"No—yes—know. There is worse."
In-difference, the slain takes reparations. From the living
the dead rapes (and reaps) with no remorse.


I will feed you honey and milk—the beggars can't starve.
Lady looks up at J., expectantly
of some news, some sapience he has hidden—
piddled and fiddled—taken
from afar, from the Orient and even beyond. The Dead Land.
He brings her incense.
"Your time is up. I wish to converse with your friend."
My dearest friend-not-friend.
J. leaves
exhausted and drugged, he inspects his veins
(and the vain-seeking fools
he idolized). But now, he has
a conscious, he gains. He waits to be killed.