by Hugh Anderson
enamored of the circuses, no longer
so sure words matter. Sucking the last morsel
of fish off bony fingers, eyeing
the neighbours’ crumbs of bread,
they expect someone to work a miracle
done once, and millions still believe
it can be done again. Millions
cling madly to the tale there is enough
for all. But who stops speaking
even a short time to hear
the rising whispers’ angry
turn to shouts? Who understands
the hand raised in benediction, the fist
raised in pain: two sides of power,
two sides of change.
FEAR GOD screaming from his ball cap,
he calls down curses, calls down fire, unsnaps the holster of his gun.
Salt of the earth, salt in the wound, he would animate
bearded Urizen on his throne above the spheres to stride
across the surface of the earth, a burning bush, pillar of fire
hurling thunder, toppling walls, sounding his rams’ horns
seventy times seven to prune the hinky,
the girlboys, the boygirls, those
who shall not be named. Opening Eden again
once the furuncle on the backside of creation has been lanced,
once the deluge inundates the coastal Babylons
once the faces that are not his languish in the pit.
Then the second coming, then becoming
the Host, the emerald angels, the chariots and wheels
within wheels. Then to sit at the right hand,
Bushmaster on his lap: fortune of the righteous.