hymn #13

Lovely,
sanguine,
grand warrior
in the Holy Kingdom

-- O --

then the T-Bird honked,
ripped curtains,
shook pillars --

the Spirit fled.

Jezee’s luscious ass rippled
as she flew from Raven’s Nest and,
from the heart,
busted out gangster rap.

O

she was gorgeous in freedom.

The couple muttered,
“Sorry, it’s just that your sticker said ...”

Jezee,
in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot,
angel
less,
without comfort,
removed the cornerstone

-- the temple crumbled.

Waited 3 days for it to rise,
but it didn’t.
Lost dogs swallowed her.
Left nothing --
nor bone, nor skin.

(This started the to and fro of Dali’s clock.
The swing to an empty tomb.)

I suppose

the garage was as good a place as any.
Bob Dylan singing in the background,
garden at the doorstep.

(Man,
she loved lilac.
Though she always complained,
“It reminds me of death.”)

So
there she swung
in the smell of it.

Bishop
back from mission's work
-- agape love.
Bob Dylan wailing
-- agape love.
Garden in bloom
-- agape love.
Jezee in full swing
-- agape love
Death arching
-- agape love.

(All that's left is tearing out your hair,
ripping off your clothes,
gnashing your teeth,
and weeping.)

O

but the Son,

the Son cradles the world
while chronic shadows bloom.
From head to toe they bloom.
And Jezee rocks,
to and fro
she rocks.

And

Bishop,

the only absolutes
are shadows multiplying 7 x 7
and Jezee rocking an empty tomb

-- O --

yeah

and the sweet scent
from a lilac bush.