Pyrefighters, Jacob's ladders,
roger me to burnt out playa.
Laocoön python girl's
cartoon in frontal bathrobe --
sucking on the beryl asp,
demented like a sweetscope.
Hope says, please
light please. Vomit a
Thermopylae mommeter.
Waltzers in a purple haze,
turn butterflies
high to May Day blue.
Handcuffs burn, O,
Whiskey Tango.
My Ripley Wrists.
My pinafore Wits.
Lovebird nurses,
boscage brows,
goatherds of Gethsemane,
opiods, for me alone,
foxtrot an open window.
Someday Christianity will end
like all invisible friends.
Someday girders & joists of
forsaken megachurches will be picked
clean by an angry planet.
Antiquarians in some pod
orbiting the heavens will pore
over televangelism archival film.
Painstakingly excavating
every hallelujah, Amen,
praise-be-to-Jesus. Transliterating
sound bite & song into
bite-sized chunks
no matter how opulent.
Ghostly echoes of toll-free
numbers trumpet
inside trailer ruins
with violence
of a liquidation sale.
& the messianic zeal of
sleight-of-hand miracles.
Like when Haggard's face
materialized on toothpaste speckling
a mirror. Or when Joyce Meyer's
cherubic keister reared
itself on a mountain
of biscuits & gravy
in that Ozark shithole.
God bless Schuller.
God bless Osteen.
God bless Copeland & his trust-fund babies.
God bless all the angels & saints of
the Trinity Broadcasting Network --
forever sleeping off the glut of manna
only heaven serves.
