I am not worthy of any of you,
Sons of Adam, daughters of Eve,
for your face shines with image Divine.
So dark it is, so dark in the night
of the groaning smog and dank in the fright
when the whimpering West sat drunken down
in the nudity of Noah.
Someone listened to Dr. Strangelove today
and set off the failsafe doomsday device.
But we were sodden by the Soma charms
of plasma widescreens (high def, you know)
on sale at Best Buy, you know
that we didn't notice the end of the world
When the Beast slouched toward Jerusalem
In hell I cried for a face in the fog
like a drop of cool water, Lazarus, on my tongue.
Do you know how crazy I am,
inmate of the premature, preternatural tenure of gloom
cross Styx, Charon ferried, Minos harried,
Malbolge tarried, Geryon carried,
Antenora, Ptolemaia, Judecca soul frozen,
our bodies caressed in the sinking West.
I really thought
Hades would follow
and stay put until,
But it's leaking.
Freaking the crazy who aren't sleeping,
they who know the truth,
the maladjusted and too much aware
of the edge,
and the prince of the air.
For the edge is what makes fools,
Out of the depths have I cried to You O Lord.
Show me a Sign, Lord, for I am one who seeks a sign,
a man of unclean lips in an unclean nation,
O me of a perverse generation:
how long will You suffer us, Lord?
And I see your face, redolent of Dawn,
your face, son, your pretty face, Eve.
Do you know how it shines with Grace?
Your smile, your touch, your grasp and your voice.
Your laughter at work, your song at prayer,
your imperfections and misbehavior,
your sins I hear and beg the Highest to forgive,
your mouth open wide like fledglings waiting
for the Swan, wounded, to feed:
I am only the paten cupbearer,
You do not know and I rejoice in your foolishness,
childish comfort, insensate of the abyss.
you prattle and tattle as if there were no End,
but you are like the Shire,
and the close comforts so.
Your face for now is the sign of the Friend
when the cold front marches eastward from the night,
and sunless sunset falls and runs, furious
like banshees, west and delirious.
They congress in spite,
to the soul for fright,
but drawn out in psychological extension,
in the familiar scripts of grudging depression.
But we recognize each other,
this afternoon, son and daughter
of the Tri-Hypostatic Sun,
and sing with the children to the king,
for if we did not the rocks surely would
for the One, colt-riding, to the Scull and Rood.
I walk backwards to Noah, lost in his cups,
but frontwards toward the early dark.
Friday is the end of all opinions and notions,
demotic theologies of pantheons,
(how nice Olympus was, and Valhalla,
and Jupiter, Odin, compared with our gods,
theurgic in the cyber schizo worlds,
auguries on the phylactery screen)
And you thought there were no gods?
We've manufactured a mess of them
just this morning, they're shipping out,
see them gleaming,
pects and sixpacks, buff and lax,
they'll do what you want them to
then suck your Ken and Barbie soul.
At least Apollo had standards.
But Friday is the end of these, even these moderns,
these clammy WalMart gods
and academic gods of standard deviation
and confidence levels and multivariate oracles
and pricepoints and business plans,
and protestant self-establishment,
and Molech's priapistic escapades on Wall Street,
cast the young soldiers in and babies last
before the fire fades.
That is the civil religion
theurgy of Device and therapeutic glossolalia,
no Eucharist, just clammy words
and gods with a fist.
But Friday is the end of civil religion
and human sacrifice.
The end of deistic, polytheistic, techno-virtualistic
factory of gods from an Infinity Mirror
in the Beauty Salon.
The end of wish fulfillment, of superman,
of stories and poems that stand alone.
The end of soothing despair,
the end of hell,
the death of air.
See how the Son goes down in the evening,
He the Second Adam, and there
the Second Eve,
in the last night of the sinner's day.
Walk with me friend to the very end.