To Whome It May Concern
Always on top, extending the middle finger higher than the rest,
waving proudly, dipping to no earthly king. Conspirators,
a confessional tattooed into the mind, the intentions
of priests and popes. Imagine: men dressed in Armani Suits,
smelling like bourbon and cigars, singing on platform:
"When Peace like a River Attendeth My Way." Deacons,
fingering the bookmarks glued to the Old Testament,
a memoir to teachings of fire and brimstone, symbolism
of lives unchanging.
Same finger drawn out of the adolescent girl who
gears up for a hike through the Garden of Eden.
A serpent morphing, apple-red lips shining
like all things regurgitated onto the bathroom floor
close as sin and suffering. This finger, of the married
man whose lungs, inflamed with erotic dances of last
night's rendezous, writes his own Chinese Proverb:
Man's schemes are inferior to those made by heaven.
No. That can't be quite right.
Religious genocide, the beasts' mark branded
a phlegmatic congregation. Leaders rise, the choir
sings their praises. A perfect gesture to those men
who at the altar cry out for mercy, baptized
in blood. Vendettas emerge, a figure approaches
the pulpit. Complacency is revisited, a new nation.
Infidels rise; prophets assume their position, prostrate,
arms chained to bedposts. Each bead of sweat falling
in sync with every thrust, submit. We are all on bottom.
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