The journal
is full of witches and
entomologies crackles
of goat hair and fuss
dust in all their weepy
cob-heads, I imagine;
but the traffic by Gethsemane
is a rainbow of destruction
designed to save the poor
the humble, the afraid
of tomorrow (and today half-
crazy). I’ll bet the bank
will never truly tally the crosses
whether Swiss, or plain cheese.
I remember there was a child once
in rags who sang songs on the street.
For supper, we had steak.
The BMW is in the shop—
waiting, a tad blasé.
Having crossed the microscope
to the microwave, rejoicing
over Real Housewives, and the blood-
bath of Spartacus…
(school shootings every other day;
burning our cities—making martyrs
out of criminals?)!
But the windows are getting froggy
with plague. Locusts in our cereal.
And
the Super Bowl in Jerusalem
is tottering near Cairo… strange,
strange, strange.
