God Save the Queen
Dear Media State and your
I am, how you say, done.
Done drama. Done infomerical.
Done cortisone shot to the brain.
Done General Hospital, done
As the World Turns, done Days
of Our Lives, done horse dung,
Daddy Warbucks, and speed.
Where, Pentecostal Lord,
is my acre to hoe, my tiara,
my land of honeyed mead?
Self-portrait in a concave mirror:
late for my own funereal destiny.
Three little birds on my doorstep.
The last tree standing, in Calvary.
• • •
Let’s go on a date! Let’s make a joke
of the MEAL PART, wadding our napkins
into strangled swans, and ordering only
shoestring fries with malt vinegar,
like freaks meeting for the first time
in a diner empty save for other night-owl
weirdos with bad manners, would do.
Jesus, my incarnate Lord and Savior,
is suffering from representational fatigue.
His plaster mosaic ikon heart is dripping
with blood, or is that colored polyurethane?
Someone tear down that 2-D arcadia panorama,
that false idyll, that made-for-tv nativity scene.
Ambassador of Hell, your not-so-secret
intelligence is killing my will-to-mean.