I journeyed to the temple,
a pilgrim borne on the wings
of a promise that I live better.
I did, I did, oh I did.
Face pressed almost to the floor,
I rooted out every last coin,
snuffling into the corner, knees
worn, but blessed with my reward:
a two-for-one on tube socks
heaped like fishes in a discount bin
for the credulous multitudes.
John is the eagle who plucks out
my liver as I lie chained
to my desk. I stole nothing
from these gods, these security guards,
all-seeing surveillance cameras,
tasers, mace and night sticks.
Keep your TV bright, tuned
to good news; you can’t know the hour;
he will come like a boyfriend in the night
and ask you to live with him.
The logos, the omniscient eye in the sky,
the wheels within wheels turning my mind,
the music blaring its loud hosannas,
Gabriel’s trumpet and seasonal jingles
rumbling through this cavernous space:
this holy of holies,
this temple of doom,
this Golgotha tremenda,
trembling pit,
this tank-top pleurescence,
regret by the bin,
a mountain of olives,
and cashews and pears,
and figs, dry as Mary’s lips.
Cry me my savings.
Screech them to the hills.
Catch me up in a net,
coupons and easy credit.
Skewer me to the billboard.
Lash me with tie-ins.
Here come the wise men bearing merchandise,
arrayed in Alfred Sung knock-offs,
feather boas, head-gear,
shoes to die for.