Thursday, January 13, 2005


It’s crowded on the crosses, today.
Fifteen martyrs to a beam,
Hanging by their hands,
Shouting rhetorical questions
To powers and principalities.

The road to Jerusalem
Had become a perilous path:
Too many stones dislodged from tombs
Have found their way to the road.

Everybody wants to be a Savior,
Everyone wants to chart the course
From perdition to redemption,
To empty the already depleted
Bowels of Hell.

There isn’t a vintner
Whose wine doesn’t have
The rust flavored taste of blood,
And too many loaves of bread
Leave bits skin between your teeth.

God Himself has become secluded.
I’ve even heard rabbinical rumors
That he’s thinking about seeking
Asylum from Rome.

The soldiers ran out of nails,
Before it was even noon,
And were forced to resort
To masking tape and superglue.

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