Pickling Gospel
I remember what I was wearing when I dissected
your corpse charisma, your failure steeple. My checkered
past & the slippery currency of your heartland worms. My union
backers, the furious pamphleteers of your misplaced enthusiasm, all
the children gathered here today for the spectacle of surgery, we numb
prophets. From the crowd, a hushed porcelain stare. From you, a handful of
dust & thwart. The last time I remember this gathering, your eyes were filed
vicious, your teeth were a machine through which the future was mangled.
& now I am wearing my favorite monocle & the golden winnings of a lifetime
spent hustling kingdoms of salt & sand. Your hospital room & my chainsaw
face. My blood bowtie & the pulse of your delirium throat. I rupture
circus, I talisman the sleepers. The loudspeaker cannot be stopped
by huddling in our trenches. Our trenches cannot stop filling with believers
& bifurcations, with hand grenades & hapless saints.
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