Life with St. John (of the Latter Day Revival Show)

Life with St. John of the Latter Day Revival Show

He fills his morning with  stale coffee

& Global warming

New York Times  nightmares

sugar coated & still crunchy in milk

after 2000 years.

Sometimes he wonders that He might be

the Great Wild Beast rising from the sea

with a bottle of Early Times  & a handful of Viagra

& maybe his girlfriend really is

Mystery  Babylon.
(just like his family said)

Whore mother, Harlot queen holding a Bible & a Cup of Vaseline
dripping generic rivers of John 3:16 from her Eden machine.

Still he sees it all
the vague, vast, End of something
gloriously hinted at in the Scriptures
just like Jesus on the tree
saw from the Wailing Wall of China in the year 31
when Annie grabbed her guns
& the Nations whined their way
through contractual Armageddon agreements
& bemoaned their lawyer bills
with the newest loaned Heads of State
on Jericho Hill
in Central Park & Yonkers
in the Capitol of the King &
the first Tampon String
St. John saw it all

the holy wretched thing
there through his apartment walls

while he was drinking New York coffee

in pounds of sugar, & creamer
dropped in a styrofoam cup
like a diabetic coma measured out 

by spoonfuls
as he scanned the news for a note

from the Creator’s

Loving Hand.

(c) All Rights reserved JMD

Black Water

Black Water

Black water.
Monday morning hysterics

war-machines overhead,

Monday night barbaric
carnivore camera eyes
devouring this slow sick feast-
Come join the beast asylum
swim if you can,
up from Cerberus’ jaws
into a fat dead dawn.
Today I tell you
Darwin was God.

Black water
frames flare film fire
devastation footage
darkness you can taste
liquid nightmares

plucked
straight from the CNN vine.
Mother Nature’s finest
rot hangs like sky:
this is what
Ivory Tower minstrels call:
natural evil.

Black water
Flowing into naught
flowing into noctis

going nowhere at all
warning signal given
on everyone’s favorite channel
like a Ramadan call at sunset.
But many left their minds at Sunday’s door
& quickly forgot
that Gods suffer not fools.
Whirling dancing deadly
Kali’s garland of skulls.
And when gray & black of sky
wraps this city in taut knots,
Pray if you have not before.
Pray quiet litanies to She, whose
blood tongue unrolled as if dream.
Pray, muttering
your cool invocations
to
our Darkest Mother.

Night Trail Grain