Okay, I told you I’d return,
but that’s all I said, remember!
Nothings really changed,
except the money changers are everywhere
and everyone’s fallen into step,
Homo-erectus become Homo-homogenous.
Well, this is it, I’m back, and that’s as far as it goes this time.
No walking on water, no healing, no disciples, no mountain sermon.
What did you expect anyway, with me hanging on that cross
bleeding to death? And you, what did you do? Weep and pray!
I didn’t want to start a religion! just get the nails out,
take me down, mend my wound, a little common kindness.
No! This time I’m going out for shortstop,
and I’m going to be so fucking good
you won’t believe your eyes.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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1 comment:
Great poem. I love it each time you or I read it. Keep on, mon frer!
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