Once a scoundrel, the new Messiah
Rises from the place you’d least expect
A prophet to return to; scene of
The crime in seven flavors, you
Can taste it on the walls.
Frozen dust from Nero’s nostrils,
Pine-Sol takes care of the rest,
Baptism by cleanser. Clean
And cleaner washes dry,
Exposing genitalia still
Hidden in the paint; all this
Time and nobody cared. What’s
A face to do? Wrinkle shut
And hope to fade with the moon
Arcing in the sky? Cut your
Eyelids instead: behold, I bring
You good news. Glad tiding
And joy. A savior is come,
Holding sway of senseless senses,
Pondering madmen, and term life
Policies. Aren’t you convinced,
Where’s your faith?
I place my faith in
The Wall Street Journal.
rjw, Spring/Summer ‘88
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