The butcher boy lays down
his blunted blade for the day.
the sun and her moon will keep the divine drumbeat heart
Cowhands and middleaged housewives
echo inside him: the language is American.
mother’s tongue will speak the words of the Son
Montana’s soil has nourished
her boy. His life will begin at sixty
I love the aroma of vintage lacquer in university hallways
Here he savors the ancient
Scriptures – thawed from cryogenic cabinets.
you see, St. Mark was no Shakespeare scholar – his Greek was ghetto
After thirty years between the
ivorytower and churchpew, he will know
there will be smoked prime ribs at Jesus’ wedding bash – the pornstars top the VIP list
and the god of rock will shout – over the Edge
and his guitar – your toast (no communion wine, but
a pint of stout) to God.